Bed Time Stories
by Jedi Skysinger
Summary: Series of Mature Content Missing Moment One-Shots between Michael and Fiona during the Fade to Black moments on the show.
1. Author's Note

**Series Author's Note:**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Burn Notice, I just self medicate with it **

This is a series of one-shots of mature content missing moments when the camera fades to black or when you just KNOW something happened during the events as depicted in Seasons 1 through 7. They range from light and fluffy to explicit and angsty (and all stops in between) and are not in chronological order.

The first chapter is a poem which was originally a stand alone fic ("This Bed") that has been taken down, edited and re-posted here.

All subsequent chapters are named for the episode in which they appear (Hard Bargain, Loose Ends, Depth Perception, Company Man, etc).

My other rated M-series, Who We Leave Behind - After Ireland, covers the time frame from when Michael left Ireland to when he involuntarily arrived in Miami.

There are some really great mature content missing moments in Burn Notice that you will not see here because someone has already written them better than I could have imagined and I won't reinvent the wheel. Chapters you will not see here:

Mike and Fi's First time in Miami – Read "Satisfied" by aknepenthe**. **Read "While Fiona Sleeps – Broken Rules" if you want to know what happens after.

Mike and Fi's time in the hotel room before Gilroy's call – Read "Not Just Another Wasted Hotel Room" by PSU93Girl

Upcoming chapters:

A Dark Road (3.07) Fiona POV

Any requests for mature missing moments, so feel free to PM me.

**And a mega huge thank you for PSU93Girl for the terrific suggestions and wonderful BETA skills. **


	2. This Bed

This bed was an after thought.

Michael told me once someone had left this bed in the loft and—

This bed was where he sat and screamed into a pillow because I gave his mother his number.

This bed is where we would have slept that first night if we hadn't been interrupted.

This bed is the one I sprawled on when I broke in and let him know I wasn't going anywhere. Not yet.

This bed is where I would lay, hanging out, eating yogurt, spreading my legs and reminding him of what he was missing.

This bed is where I would sometimes lie during mission briefings and sometimes it embarrassed Sam, so—

Sometimes this bed made me laugh.

This bed is where we made love for the first time since I came to Miami.

This bed is where I sat giving Thomas a back rub while Michael pretended not to care.

This bed is where Michael made love to me when he thought I had died in the fire.

This bed is where he expected to find me when he returned from getting me that egg-white omelet.

This bed is where I sat, angry and hurt, when Michael's ex-finance knocked on the door.

Sometimes, when he was gone again, I would come over and lie on this bed.

This bed is where I slept after Michael disappeared from the FBI holding cell.

This bed is where I slept after Michael rejoined the CIA to hunt the ones who burned him when I didn't have a bed of my own.

This bed is where Michael made love to me after I threw him on the floor.

This bed is the one he invited me to share with him, maybe forever.

This bed is where I lie, sad and hurt, while he pours over his files again.

This bed is where I wake up with heartache worse than my hangover.

Sometimes this bed makes me cry when Michael's not in it and I am.

Sometimes I remember that bed in Dublin when I lie in this bed and I don't know when he's going to come back.

When Michael's here with me, really here, this bed is the whole world to me.

Which is why I'm still here in this bed, though sometimes I hate myself for being a lovesick fool.

This bed is where I lie sometimes and wonder if I should even be in it.

This bed is the only place where we're on the same page; want the same things that moment.

This bed is the only place the world makes sense when we're in it together.

This bed is the only place where Michael and I have peace.

What would I do without this bed?


	3. Hard Bargain

**A/N -There's so much angst on Burn Notice right now, I wanted to start off with a little first season fluff. This is set at the end of Hard Bargain. You know something went down after the fade to black. This is my version of what happened.**

They were sitting on the floor, face to face, similarly clad in jeans and white tops; both barefoot, their sandals and flip flops respectively discarded. Early morning light was streaming through the wide window behind the kitchen area, illuminating their work as they repaired the cabinet door Michael had broken in two trying to stay alive the night before.

While Fiona completed resetting the hardware, Michael was talking with Sam about what had happened to his assailant. He had passed out after "Perry Clark" (or whoever he actually was) had tried to garrote him. He wasn't sure how long he was unconscious, but it had been well after dark when the attack had happened and it was almost daylight when he came to.

His first call had been to Fiona, who must have broken several traffic laws and the sound barrier getting there because she had arrived minutes after he had emerged from the bathroom, freshly washed and changed, having applied as much medical treatment as he could to the angry red mark about his throat.

This in no way stopped Fiona from attempting to apply her own particular brand of field medicine to his wound. His second call had been to Sam, who was equally appalled at what had taken place and surprisingly more vocal than Fiona had been. He had promised to call back as soon as he had the information.

While they glued and clamped the wooden door back together, Fi had said little, merely casting sidelong glances at him, which he returned with a slight smile. He was just pleased she hadn't overreacted as he had initially expected despite the fact that her unusual quiet was starting to make him nervous.

She was just pleased he was alive. The last time he'd called her and his voice had sounded like that a fire bomb had been involved. The image of him collapsing into the getaway car rasping and covered in soot was permanently burned into her brain. She was almost surprised to see the loft intact when she'd arrived.

Michael ended his call with Sam regarding the final disposition and possible identity of "Perry Clark." The man was a dead end, literally. He closed the phone and set it on the floor behind him. Fiona in turn set down the drill and handed him the door.

"You were right about him, you know," she said with an impish smile. "You must be a little proud of yourself."

"I wanted my burn notice resolved, talked myself into denying my instincts," he countered as he set the door back in its place. "It's nothing to be proud of."

Fiona reached out and rubbed the marks on his neck, probing them with her thumb and then her forefinger.

"I'm fine, Fi," he assured her.

"You almost died."

"That's happened before."

FIona pouted. She remembered with great clarity each of the other times he had almost expired in her company. She was sure there were plenty more that she knew nothing about. Back in Ireland, she once told him once she refused to worry about anything or anyone. She had informed him then that if she actually worried about him, it meant he was either very special or about to be very dead. She hadn't actually put it that politely when she had said it, but the point had been made.

"So I'm not allowed to be concerned... to worry?"

"You can worry about me," Michael assured her, not giving the statement quite the same weight she did.

Fiona stretched out her arms, leaning back on her elbows away from him. "Like Nick worried about Dawn?" she asked, cocking her head to one side and grinning broadly.

"Hopefully not exactly like that," he returned, not quite chuckling.

"Ah, he was head over heels in love." She raised her eyebrows at him playfully.

"I talked to him about you." Michael reached into the bottom drawer to his right. "About what I should get you for your birthday." He pulled out a Soviet sidearm, decorated with an enormous red bow, and held it up in the palm of his hand.

Fiona sat up immediately. "A Makarov," she breathed.

"He said you would like it."

She eagerly took the gun and cradled it in both hands for a moment, before pointing it at the balcony doors, inches from Michael's ear.

"Is it the same?" she asked, sighting down the weapon with satisfaction.

"Nick convinced his boss to sell it to me at a discount."

Fiona folded her hands, pistol included, back into her lap.

"Thank you, Michael," she said with sincerity.

"Happy Birthday, Fi," he returned with a smile.

They gazed at each other for a long, charged moment.

"So, shall we try it out?" she queried, her Cheshire cat grin in evidence again.

Michael's eyebrows scrunched up in confusion. "You want to go to a gun range?"

"Don't be silly, Michael," she cocked her head to the side again. "You couldn't walk in the door without attracting the-"

"ATF, FBI, FDLE, Metro Dade... probably the BSO, too."

"Even if you could go, they'd never let me bring in my big toys and Markham Park's too far to drive. Besides, I prefer a little privacy when I'm having target practice. I have a little place I use out in the Everglades for... different things."

"Fiona," he frowned, "you should be more careful with your... side jobs."

"I'm not the one with a scar, now am I?" she queried as she reached out and ran a finger along the raised red welt on his neck again. "Are you worried about me?"

The pieces clicked together for him at that moment and the significance of what she had asked him, of what it had meant to her earlier, dawned on him. He started to lean away from her touch, but Fiona wasn't having it.

"Did you get me any ammo?" She slowly slid her hand from his neck down the front of his chest to land on his thigh. "It won't take NATO-issued rounds, you know."

"I do know a little something about Russian handguns," he chuckled in spite of her proximity as she brought the hand holding the weapon to rest on his other thigh and leaned her face towards his.

"I mean, it's a truly lovely piece." She eased the hardware gently down into his lap, ribbon side up. "But a gun's not much good, of course..." she breathed on him, "if it's not loaded."

He reached over and took the Makarov with his left hand before she could do anything else with it, intent on putting it somewhere safe, then leaned back on his elbows as she had done earlier in an effort to put some space between them. By the time he realized he'd made a tactical error, it was far too late. Fiona got up onto her knees, momentarily resting her weight on his thighs before trailing her hands up his stomach and onto his chest again.

"Fi..."

"I just want to thank you properly for my present," she purred. "It's been awhile since you… got me something for my birthday." Her eyes sparkled and Michael remembered. He'd cooked her dinner for the one birthday she had had while they were together in Ireland… with a very particular pie for dessert. He swallowed thickly.

Fiona splayed her hands across his chest and began massaging his nipples with her thumbs through the thin cotton of his T-shirt. She knew what that did to him and he knew that she knew what that did him. The last time she'd tried it on him he'd been too interested in searching Jan's hotel room, but he had been just as frustrated and uncomfortable while he did it as she surely had intended.

As if on cue, his phone rang.

"Aren't you going to get that?" Fiona cooed. "Could be somebody important." She put her full weight on his chest, which, as relatively inconsequential as it was, made it almost impossible for him to retrieve his phone without lying flat on his back. He glanced at the number. Damn, he swore to himself, he did need to answer it.

He gave in and sank back onto the floor, reaching to his right to pick up the phone and flip it open. Another tactical error. Now both of his hands were full and hers were free. Fiona settled between his legs, reached up under his shirt, and started making slow, sweeping circles from his abs to his pectorals and back.

"Barry," he tried to keep his voice steady. "Thanks for calling me back."

"No problem... You okay? You sound stressed."

"A little busy, you know, this and that." He resisted the urge to groan out loud as she pushed his shirt out of the way and began laying light kisses down the path where her hands had just trailed fire over his skin the moment before.

"Uh, usually Sam calls me. Is something..."

"No, no, no, no, no, everything's fine. Sam's busy right now," Michael lied quickly, hoping it sounded sincere. "And I need to get this done soon."

Fiona lifted her head and smiled up at him again, repeatedly running her hands across the front of his jeans. She felt him react exactly as she had anticipated.

"So, what do you need?" Barry's voice issued from the phone.

"I know what you need," she whispered as she rubbed her face against the stretched denim in front of her.

Michael closed his eyes and thudded the back of his head against the floor in frustration.

"Can we meet in an hour?"

She undid the top button of his pants and then slowly eased the fly open.

"On second thought, Barry, make it four. The other place."

He snapped the phone shut. Fiona grinned triumphantly.

"Did you decide you wanted to try out the gun after all?" she asked, reaching for something other than the Makarov.

He groaned out loud this time. "Fi..." He knew he was going to remember later why this was such a bad idea, but at the moment he was having a hard time, in more ways than one, recalling what that was.

"Yes, Michael?" She lightly licked her lips and began tugging on his waistband.

"Don't you think we would be more comfortable on the bed?"

"What makes you think I care if you're comfortable?" she returned, roughly jerking his jeans and his boxers off his hips. Before he could protest further, she stood up quickly in one fluid motion and just as quickly dropped her own jeans onto the floor.

She saw the question on his face and answered before he could ask it. "I was in a hurry when I got dressed. Underwear seemed unimportant at the time." Tangled as he was in his pants and his thoughts, he didn't move as Fiona stepped out of her pants and straddled his stomach.

"Here, let me help you." She grasped the hem of her white top and whipped it over her head. Folding it into a neat square, she leaned forward, rubbing her body along the length of his. Michael wasn't sure what to expect when she grasped the back of his head until she tucked the improvised pillow under it. "Comfortable now?" Fiona didn't wait for him to answer, hungrily descending on his mouth while running her hands through his short black hair.

He encircled her with his arms, still holding the sidearm and cell phone in his hands. Fiona pulled back from him for a moment and smiled. "The three things you should never be without." He blinked at her, totally at a loss for a comeback. She took his silence for approval and leaned in again.

"A...fine... illustration... of ... your ... need... for ... tactical... support," she said, pausing between each of the words to kiss the injury to his throat with feather light brushes of her lips. A deep sigh he hadn't intended to let out escaped nonetheless. They shouldn't be doing this; he tried to reason with himself, totally without success. When it came to Fiona, his body always knew what it wanted, regardless of what his brain tried to tell it.

She slowly sat up until she was again straddling his stomach, mere inches from where he really wanted her to be. She ran her hands over his chest and teased him again with her thumbs. The contrast of her nakedness to his mostly clothed state was... a total reversal of the first time he'd seen her after he'd left her in Dublin. Then she had been mostly dressed and he had only been wearing a towel momentarily, flat on his back on the floor of his Tripoli hotel room.

"You can hold on to the gun this time."

Apparently she was remembering the same thing he was. There had been a pistol involved then, too. She'd hit him with it, almost knocking him out as he'd exited the shower, before she'd stuck it under his chin, apparently with every intention of pulling the trigger.

But Fiona was smiling down at him this time, despite the memory of how murderously angry she'd been at that time.

"Fi-" He wasn't sure what he was going to say, but her name seemed a good place to start.

"Shhh...Michael, we're here together now... that doesn't matter anymore."

Whatever he had planned on saying completely fled his brain as she settled onto him with a throaty moan. Those sounds she made were one of the things he missed most about being with FIona, though he would never admit it, particularly since he would never admit to missing her at all.

The pace she set was tortuously slow, pausing to grind herself into him with each down stroke. He laid the phone and the firearm on each side of her legs and reached up to lay a hand on each of her thighs.

"Fiona," he groaned out her name. She didn't answer him directly, just smiled broadly and increased the rhythm, moaning herself again. She laid her hands on top of his and then squeezed them tight as she moved faster against him.

They both lost track of time as their world narrowed to the point where their bodies connected. Fiona threw her head back and gasped, shuddering above him as she came undone. The sight of it did Michael in as well. He freed himself from her hands and pushed up off the floor to gather her into his lap for the final strokes.

They sat there, panting and gasping, holding each other tight, their foreheads pressed together, until the phone had the temerity to ring.

Fiona huffed, then dropped her hand from his waist and swatted the buzzing annoyance away. It skidded under the breakfast bar and thudded against one of the legs on the far side.

"Fi," he started to object, but she threw her arms around his neck and crushed her mouth against his. Michael gave up worrying about who it was as it stopped ringing and she reclaimed his attention. If only, she thought unhappily, she could distract him from the other things in his life this easily. After a few moments of dueling tongues, the phone rang again.

"Now you can answer it," she informed him, disentangling herself from him. Fiona pulled back and stood up, while he leaned over and retrieved the phone. Michael closed his eyes and let his head drop back, exhaling in exasperation when he saw who was calling.

"This," he declared, frowning and waving the phone at her as she gathered up her clothes, "is your fault."

"Say hi to your mom for me," she smirked as she moved past him toward the bathroom, leaving him sitting on the floor with his jeans and his boxers around his knees.

He growled in irritation and flipped the phone open. "Hi, Mom."

Before Madeline could do more than say his name, he cut her off, "Busy now, Mom. Have to call you back."

He snapped the cell shut and rolled onto his back, pulling his clothes back up around his hips. He picked Fiona's birthday present up off the floor and laid it on the breakfast bar along with the Razor. He heard the shower start and then consulted his watch, mentally calculating how long it would take to drive from the loft to the "other place" to meet Barry. Michael was going to ask him for the name of a forger. He didn't want to get Sam involved. If something went wrong with his D.C. trip, he didn't want his 'travel papers' to come back on Sam.

The burnt spy figured the mark on his neck gingerly. "IF something goes wrong," he snorted. He was going to need back-up he knew. He glanced between the breakfast bar and the bathroom several times and made a decision.

"Say, Fi, I'm going to need some back-up tomorrow."

"That'll cost you," came the singsong reply from within the confines of the tiny bath.

"Fine." Michael headed toward the bathroom, not bothering to button his jeans. Time to up the ante. "You want to go shopping first?"

"It's a start," Fiona replied as he closed the door behind him.


	4. Loose Ends Part 2

_**A/N:**__** This is set at the end of Season One (Loose Ends Part II) immediately before Michael loads up the Charger to take Nate and Madeline to Ft. Lauderdale and follows through to the scene where Michael and Fi say goodbye before going to rescue Sam. I think she gave him more of a goodbye than that peck on the cheek. As always, thanks to everyone for the reviews, favorites and alerts and to PSU93Girl for her awesome BETA skills.**_

She watched them through the upper window. Staying out of the line of fire between Madeline and Michael was always a sound tactical strategy, although on occasion she had been known to encourage such interaction. Fiona smiled briefly, and then sobered again. How had it come to this?

Movement to her right caught her attention. It only took her a second to process that the footfalls belonged to Michael's brother. Nate came into the room slowly, having learned recently and somewhat painfully that Fiona was just as hyper alert as his brother.

"Crazy stuff, huh?" he said as he came to stand by her side at the window. "Is it always like this?"

She heaved a sigh. "Lately." She looked at the younger Westen for a moment, and then turned to look out the window again. Fiona laughed without humor. "I guess I was wrong about Miami not being a war zone."

"You should have been here during the coke wars in the '70s." Nate snorted, "better yet, right after the Mariel boatlift."

"Hm, maybe it was something like Belfast," she murmured, gazing at Michael, but seeing another man entirely.

"Um, you used to work with Mike, right?"

The corners of her mouth twitched up slightly and she inclined her eyes, though not her face, towards him, "is that what he told you?"

"Uh, more or less. You know, my bro, he doesn't-"

"I know," she assured him. "So, what's it like, having your brother back?"

"Weird, actually," Nate confessed. He was watching the pair in the drive with the same intensity as she was now. "I mean, that's all Mom would talk about is him coming home, for like forever, and now that he's here..." It was Nate's turn to sigh. "I guess I'm not the only one who's messed up his life. It just seemed different with him cuz..." He trailed off as Maddy hugged her other son. "You got family?"

"Five older brothers," she replied.

Nate looked at her and whistled. "Damn, I thought I had it bad! It's hard enough trying to live up to one..."

Fiona met his gaze and smiled at him sympathetically. "Especially when that one is Michael."

"Yeah," he agreed, looking back out the window. "I guess they're ready to go. Thanks, Fiona."

She wasn't entirely sure what exactly he was thanking her for, so she simply said, "You're welcome."

She watched his retreating back and thought about the snippets of conversation she'd had with Nate, things she'd overhead between him and his family. Sean had always razzed her about being just a girl and she'd always done her best to prove him wrong, but it had never affected the way she saw herself. If anything, it had made her stronger. Michael was the only one who ever made her doubt herself. Well, maybe not the only one-Armand had had that effect on her as well-but Michael was the main one. Apparently, she and Nate had that much in common.

She watched the interaction between the three of them briefly, filing it away for future contemplation, until the Charger pulled out of the long drive and into the street. Back to business, she told herself. It would be at least two hours, probably three to four depending on exactly where in Fort Lauderdale they were going and how long it took them to settle Madeline down.

The former guerilla moved their clothes, the hardware and the sticky bomb to the master bedroom upstairs, packing the latter away in a carrying bag, just in case they had visitors downstairs. She reflected briefly about their flirting while constructing the explosive, then settled onto the floor and made short work of cleaning and adjusting her sniper rifle. Afterwards, she felt sticky. It got hot early in Miami at this time of year and they hadn't exactly been running the air conditioning. No need to tip someone off to their presence by running up the power bill. She'd been taking a lot of dips in the pool, but didn't feel like making herself that vulnerable while she was alone.

Fiona stripped down quickly and headed for the shower, leaving a Mac10 on the adjacent vanity in case she got unwanted company. She supposed over time she'd adjust to this climate; so different from home. It hadn't been so bad when she'd arrived in December. Little did she know she'd come during the only three-month window where the heat and humidity were bearable, which was a complete inversion of the seasonal patterns of Ireland. She'd never understood how Michael could wear suits in this weather. The Irish woman found that she liked being able to show off some skin. The fact that it was practical for the conditions was an added benefit. Then she found herself wondering if she'd get the time she needed to adjust here. Fiona defiantly pushed that thought away and jerked the shower enclosure door open.

She had only just started the water when she heard a noise downstairs: someone opening the door. She cast around quickly for something other than a towel when she noticed a large fluffy white terry cloth robe Madeline had apparently forgotten to take with her. It would have to do. Fiona cinched the belt tightly around her waist and roughly pushed the sleeves back. Grabbing the machine pistol, she crept to the top of the landing, sighting the figure in the entryway through the wrought iron railing of the staircase. She straightened up immediately when she saw who it was.

"Michael?" The lithe woman flew down the stairs, noting his shirt was sweat-soaked, stopping just short on the bottom stair so that they were eye to eye. "You're back already? What happened?"

"Let's just say my Mom doesn't really understand the meaning of secure communications. They tried to bring me in, but..." he stopped and sucked in a gulp of air.

"Wait, who tried to bring you in?" She raised the weapon as though she expected someone to follow him through the door.

"The same ones who shot Cowan, the same ones who got me burned, I guess." He pushed the barrel back down. "I won't really know until we meet."

"What? You're going with them?" She searched his eyes, wondering if he'd been hit in the head. "What about Sam?"

"I bought us twelve hours to get Sam back." Michael began unrolling his sleeves. "I just used one of them running back here."

"Running?" Fiona ran her hand over his damp shoulder."Ew, I think you ruined this shirt. Where's your car?"

"I gave Nate the Charger and sent them on to Fort Lauderdale. I don't think they'll bother them. It's me they want."

"Michael-" she said in alarm.

"I know, Fi, I know." He sucked in his lower lip and scanned the vast empty room before noting that everything had been cleared out. "Right now I have to get cleaned up and changed. We need to get down to the river and be ready to get Sam out before Harrick calls."

"Master bath's upstairs on your left. I moved everything up there in case something happened."

"Looks like it did." He blew out another gust of air, seemingly just noticing what she was wearing, instantly recognizing it. He smiled in spite of himself.

"Thanks, Fi." He started to move past her, undoing the buttons as he went. Fiona reached out and put a hand to his chest to stop him.

"Michael,"

"Yeah, Fi?""

"You don't have to do this."

He opened his mouth to respond, but she stopped him before he could.

"I know, we have to get Sam back, but the rest of it." She shook her head, gesturing with the Mac10 at the room at large, hoping it covered everything she couldn't say. "Michael, please," she pleaded, begging him with her eyes.

"Fi..." He made that face, that one that said he was sorry, but he was going to do it anyway. He cupped her cheek with his hand and drew her in for a long soft kiss. They stood there, connected at the heart for one moment in time, and then he broke the kiss and gave her his best apologetic smile.

"I gotta get ready," and with that, he pushed past her and headed up the stairs.

Michael walked into the master bath, dropping his wet clothes to the floor with a small splat. He felt slightly ridiculous standing there naked trying to peel his drenched socks off his feet. He blasted the water, not bothering to let it come to temperature. The cold water made him jump but it felt great. He washed his hair with the soap and was rinsing his face when he heard the bathroom door open. He glanced quickly to the 9mm on the back of the toilet then relaxed when he saw Fiona come into the room and, just as quickly, tensed up again as she untied the belt and dropped the robe to the floor.

"We both need a shower anyway," she informed him as she pulled the door open, not caring about the water pelting onto the tile at her feet. She took his breath away, on more than one level, as she shut the enclosure with a snap and moved against him in an instance.

"Fi..."

"Don't speak," she requested, putting her finger to his lips. "Don't say anything."

He stared at her intensely, remembering the other occasions she'd said those words to him, and then sucked her fingertips into his mouth, crushing her against him with his arms. Michael wanted to tell her they didn't have time for this. He wanted to tell her that, but the truth was he wanted this as much as she did. She pulled her fingers from his mouth and replaced them with her tongue, running her freed hand through his wet hair and roughly taking him into the other hand. There was no gentleness in their embrace, in their kisses. It was as raw as their emotions and as urgent as their situation.

Michael sank down onto the shower floor taking her with him and she impaled herself gladly, grinding pelvic bones together as she set an almost frantic rhythm. Her nails dug into his shoulders as his hands gripped her back, feeling every inch of her backbone protruding through the muscles. Fiona was so much thinner than when he had left her in Dublin. She looked like she had in the surveillance photographs that he later learned were taken after Claire had died. Guilt and need mixed together and he pulled her tightly to him again. She threw her arms around his neck, but didn't slow her pace. It wasn't their tender lovemaking of Dublin, or later Italy or Germany; it was the intense coupling of Tripoli, Istanbul, Cairo...

She was losing him again and she knew it. Fiona knew even if he came back to her alive, she had lost in her quest to find Michael McBride. He'd been consumed by Michael Westen. Michael for his part just wanted to give her the goodbye he felt he owed her, the goodbye he so desperately needed before he let her go, though he would never admit it, even to himself.

Fiona shattered and came apart, physically and emotionally, gasping his name, as the tears she usually held until after he'd gone mingled freely with the shower water cascading down her face. She was going to ask him one last time. She was going to ask and she knew what he was going to say, but she was going to do it anyway. She had to. She kept moving against him, not wanting to stop. Michael tightened his grip on her as he shuddered and groaned 'Fiona' aloud.

"Fi," he pleaded. She slowed and then stilled, assuming that was what he was asking. She clung to him and him to her as he drew deep stuttering breaths.

"We gotta hurry," Michael said almost apologetically.

"I know," she replied simply.

They broke apart both literally and figuratively and finished the business of cleaning up without touching or really looking at each other. Both of them knew what would happen if they did and they forced themselves to focus on Sam's situation instead of their own, becoming the professionals they both were-each in their own way.

Michael finished before she did, retreating into the bedroom and dressing quickly. He took the time to check out his equipment while she dressed, then dried and pinned her hair to her head, pushing the remaining wet strands away from her face with a headband. By the time they had finished their respective tasks, they had both achieved a measure of composure.

"Shall we?" she queried.

The former spy gathered up the bomb, his dry suit and his weapon, while the one-time South Armagh sniper collected her favorite rifle and bag and they headed down the stairs, then out the front door towards Sam's Cadillac.

"You think it's okay to take Sam's car on the street? Those government types..."

"I bought myself a couple of hours before they pick me up. Might as well drive it til then."

"You're really going to go with them?" She wasn't going to let him go without one last attempt.

"Yeah, Fi," he returned, already wanting to close the discussion.

"They shot Cowan in front of you."

"They didn't shoot me." He opened the trunk and began stowing his bags inside. "I want to know what's going on and I told 'em I'd meet 'em."

"You're a spy, Michael. Why don't you just lie? That's what spies do, you know?" Fiona added her weapon and her bag to the trunk as well. "If you want to run-"

"This is not about honor. And I'm not running anymore. I want answers and this is the only way to find them." Michael shut the trunk firmly and consulted his watch. With a quick exhalation, he asked. "You ready?"

She not quite smirked at him as she held his gaze and he returned the gesture. "It's been fun..." she paused as her favorite catch phrase stuck in her throat, "...Michael." Her face grew somber. "At least this time we get to say goodbye." Fiona leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. She didn't think she could keep her detachment if she kissed him on the mouth.

Michael reached out and cupped her face in his palm. "Thank you, Fi."

He leaned in and kissed her on the mouth, pulling back quickly. She leaned towards him and then stopped herself. The man in black smiled briefly and then turned toward the driver's side of the Caddy. Fiona watched him as he slipped into the car for a moment and then shook it off.

"I have a car down by the river, assuming someone hasn't stolen it back," she advised as she marched dutifully toward the passenger side.

They had a job to do.


	5. Depth Perception

**A/N: This is the companion piece to the "Depth Perception" chapter of ****While Michael Sleeps**. **At the risk of sounding self-promoting, this makes more sense if you read that chapter first. Thanks to Amanda Hawthorn for being absolutely awesome and to Purdy's Pal for her equally awesome feedback. **

_Compartmentalization is a key element of tradecraft. The ability to keep things separated and under control, whether it's the elements of an operation or just your emotions, is vital to the success of a covert operative. Much like keeping the accelerant of a bomb from coming into contact with the fuel before the right moment, allowing your personal life to mix with your professional life can have explosive consequences. _

He was dreaming about the past.

_He was painting with water colors. it frustrated him. He had the fine motor control for the exercise, but totally lacked any artistic ability. He preferred painting models. There was creativity within a structure there, not this... He ground his teeth as he got too much water on the paper and the colors bled into one another. He couldn't wait to get out of art class. He hated it. _

_The boy next to him knocked the water cup between them over and it spilled into his paint set. All the colors puddled up and ran together, making a nasty muddy brown. The kid antagonized him regularly, so Michael was sure it wasn't an accident. He knocked his adversary down with a well placed shot that he knew would guarantee a black eye._

_He wondered on the way to principal's office if his father would congratulate him for standing up for himself or beat him for starting a fight. Michael shivered. Depended on how drunk or hung over he was by the time to phone call was made or whether he was even at home._

He was dreaming about something that happened.

_"You're welcome, Michael."_

_Anson turned on his heel and strode out of the hospital; leaving him standing there frozen in place. If he had felt cold on the beach that day, he'd just discovered a new temperature below freezing. What else could this man do to him? What more was there?_

_The answer made him even colder. There was plenty more. _

_"Mikey? You okay?"_

_"No."_

_He couldn't bear to turn around and look at Sam's face, knowing what he would see there…_

_"I need a minute. I'll see you back at the loft."_

_"Okay, brother. Be careful," Sam had called to his retreating back._

_The loft. _

_It was empty. _

_If only Fiona were there and not in the Caymans. _

_He was counting on Jesse to keep her safe._

_He had to keep her safe._

He was dreaming about the past again.

_He was learning how to make a bomb the IRA way. O'Dowd had been right about this cover. McBride's sojourn to Italy and his time as a low level solider for the Mafia helped explain away a lot of the little mistakes he made now that he was"back home." He gladly took the verbal abuse Sean heaped on him regularly because it meant Fiona's brother didn't suspect him. Fiona, on the other hand..._

_Well, he had other ways of distracting her._

_At the moment, she was distracting him. _

_"Michael," she sighed in exasperation, "you're going to get us all blown to kingdom come."_

_She leaned over him, pressing her breasts into his shoulder blades. He could feel her hardened nipples through the thin cotton of their respective T-shirts. He shuddered involuntarily. Although it was uncomfortably warm in the cramped space in the back of the mechanics shop where they were assembling the explosives for job, she was giving him chills. Sean was working at the adjacent table, his back to them._

_Fiona had her face right next to his, her chin on his shoulder. She wrapped her hands over his and corrected the wiring._

_"You can't let those two things touch," she chided. "You'll blow your hands off when you try to set it."_

_Sean looked back over his shoulder at them and scowled at what he saw._

_"You're going to get yourself killed, McBride," he groused, returning to his work._

_Michael wasn't sure if it was Sean, the bomb or Fiona that was going to do the killing._

_"Careful now," she whispered into his ear and then grazed his earlobe with her teeth. "You might be needing those hands later." _

_Definitely Fiona._

He was dreaming of something that never happened.

_They were racing through the streets of his old neighborhood. Fiona was dressed for battle; ass-kicking boots, shotgun at the ready and fury at written plainly on her face. The Charger screeched to a halt in front of the dilapidated, clapboard house. Several the jalacy window panes were missing on the door near the lock. He motioned her to be ready and then pulled it open. _

_There was something disturbingly familiar about the old, musty house. The smell was awful and he remembered it from somewhere. But he forced the thoughts away. She had gone ahead of him, searching the rooms. He found her at the back of the house._

_Fiona was crouched on the floor, her arms wrapped around a dark haired boy of maybe twelve or thirteen who was pressed into the corner. The kid was curled up in a ball, his arms clutching his knees and his face buried in them. Michael could see the bruises on his arms in the misty illumination leaking through the thin curtains. There were hand prints where the teen had been pulled or grabbed with a crushing force. He'd had plenty of those marks in his lifetime._

_"It's okay, no one's going to hurt you," Fiona murmured. "I'm not going to let anyone hurt you anymore."_

_She was rocking gently, hugging him and whispering soft encouragements to him, trying to draw the huddled form out of the corner._

_"Come on, Fi," Michael urged. "We need to get out of here." He was starting to remember where he'd seen this house before._

_"Michael," she protested, "can't you see he's hurt and he's scared? Give him a minute!"_

_"He doesn't have a minute. He's got a job to do. People's lives depend on him doing his job. He doesn't have time to be hurt or scared."_

_Fiona lifted her head and stared at him incredulously. As the boy raised his bruised and bloodied face, Michael found himself staring into his own cobalt blue eyes. _

_Then he found himself the one, younger and battered, in Fiona's arms, taking the comfort she offered against the ache of bruised muscles and abraided skin.._

_Then the house burst into flames around them, like he somehow knew it would._

_Then it was no longer Fiona holding him. It was a trio of emergency personnel. He wasn't in the house; he was standing outside of Poole's house and was engulfed in flames. They were holding him back, keeping him from her._

_"Was anyone in there? Did you find anyone in there?"_

_" Is there a woman in there? I just need to know if someone is in there."_

_" Is there anyone in there? She's- She's"_

_Fiona could be in there._

_Fiona!_

No, she wasn't there in that house. He could smell her, the scent of her perfume mingling with the cologne on his shirt that she wore. He could feel her warmth next to him; she was there- she was there in the loft with him.

He sank back into sleep and dreamed of the thing he dreaded happening.

_He was driving away the loft when the phone rang. It was his mother. _

_"Michael, what's going on?" Madeline demanded, her voice sounding raspier than usual. "What did you do to her? I can't believe you would hurt that girl like that after-"_

_"What? What do you mean 'hurt' her? What happened?" _

_"She came in and told me to tell you she was going away and she gave me a letter for you. Then she got all teary-eyed and said goodbye to me. Said I was like a mother to her," his mom's voice broke at the same time his heart did. _

_"Is she still there?"_

_"She was. I mean, I think she is. I think she's still in the driveway. Michael, what is going on?"_

_"Mom, this is important. Don't let her leave."_

_Of course, Fiona would leave word for him with the only person physically incapable of stopping her. _

_What was normally a fourteen minute ride from the loft to his mother's house passed in an instant. _

_The Charger screeched to a halt at the back of his mother's driveway. Fiona's car was still there, but she wasn't in it. He breathed a sigh of gratitude and bounded through the front door. Madeline was sitting on the couch, sobbing into a dish towel._

_"Mom, where is she?"_

_"She's gone, Michael. I tried to stop her, I tried, but she was gone. She left her car. She must have got into another car or a cab. I heard one pull away, but I couldn't get there in time ..." Madeline began to cry uncontrollably._

_Michael's world stopped revolving. He wondered blindly if this was how she had felt when she woke up alone and abandoned in Dublin._

_"I would have done anything for her. She was family, my family." His mother was sniffling now. "Everything I did was for the family."_

_"If you wanted to do something for the family, why didn't you leave HIM before he could ruin all our lives? Why didn't YOU LEAVE HIM before I was so screwed up that I couldn't even let her into my life?" _

_He didn't know what made him say it. Part of him, very tiny part that still hibernated inside him, felt betrayed that she had for stayed with his father all those years. That part had woken up again the other day when she had slapped him for the first time ever. Just as likely though, it was the seed Anson had planted in his mind earlier today. It had taken root and grown poisonous; fed by the stress and the feeling of powerlessness that had run through him. _

_Madeline stared at him, horror struck, then started sobbing harder._

_"Hush, woman," commanded a voice Michael heard only in his nightmares. "Quit your damned blubbering." _

_Frank Westen stepped into the living room, looking every bit as hard and cold as his son remembered. Michael had always been a younger version of his father, something that had irritated his sire no end; only years of bitterness and alcohol abuse had changed that. _

_"Shit, boy, if you can't control your woman, how in the hell do you expect your ma to?" _

_He was momentarily immobile._

_"Nothing to say? That's a first," Frank drawled._

_His father folded his arms across his chest and planted his feet evenly on the floor. Michael recognized the stance. It meant a tirade, a beating or both were coming. _

_Let him fucking try that now, he thought defiantly. _

_Yet the image from the past warred with the picture Anson had painted: regret, sorrow and... and a missed opportunity for an apology? He didn't see any of those things anywhere in his parent's stern visage at the moment. _

"_You still don't know what's going on, do you?"_

"_And what exactly am I supposed to know?" Michael countered._

_The senior Westen barked a short laugh. "Shit, I'm dead and gone. I'm rotting in the grave like you always wanted and you're STILL letting it get to you. Didn't I teach you any better?" _

_"Oh, you taught me plenty."_

_Frank huffed in exasperation. _

_"He's using me to get to you and you're letting him. It's done and over. You're letting him play you like fiddle. Wake up!" _

"Wake up!"

_Michael dearly wished at that moment that he could. He exerted all his focus on backing out of what he knew was just a nightmare, another attempt by his overloaded mind to tell him something he didn't want to hear._

"Wake up!" she demanded.

Fiona was there, clasping his forearms with her own, jerking them hard. Her body was leaned away from his as she tugged on him. He remembered in horror waking up from another nightmare involving his father and finding his hand clamped around her throat.

Fiona stopped pulling on him when his eyes opened. He slowed his breathing as she looked on with apprehension. How much more could they take? How much deeper could it cut when he fell from the blade because he'd been balanced on the edge too long?

Michael slid his arms up hers and pulled her to his chest, embracing her desperately. He knew she could hear how hard his heart was pounding; her face was pressed over it. Did she understand that she was the only reason for it to still be beating at all?

How many times since he was burned had he woken up in this bed alone, drenched in sweat? How many times had he wished that she was here? And now that she was here, how could he tolerate her not being here? How could he allow that to happen?

He couldn't.

"You still don't want to talk about it yet," she guessed.

His stomach decided to answer the question. It rumbled softly. He groaned.

He hadn't bothered to eat yesterday. The ex-operative was too busy trying to save Sam's friend and being in Anson's company had effectively killed his appetite.

"Michael," she giggled nervously. Fiona sounded as uptight as he felt, but she was determined to lighten the mood. "I hope for your sake that's because you haven't eaten all day."

"I wasn't hungry," he said, rolling her onto her back and positioning himself at her side, his head propped up on one elbow. "At least, not for yogurt."

Food wasn't what he hungered for. He needed to touch her, to hold her, to lose himself in her. He needed to push every intolerable thought out of his head and replace with the sight, sounds, smell, taste and feel of the only woman he'd ever loved.

Michael placed one feather light touch of his lips in the center of her forehead and followed that with one on each eyelid and then her nose. She smiled softly in response. Butterfly kisses trailed down her cheeks to her earlobes; first the right side and then the left. The Irish woman pouted when he kissed her chin instead of her mouth and then she got her wish.

He kissed her with as much tenderness as he had to give.

Fiona was here. It would be alright.

He continued kissing her, but instead of the usual intensity that seemed to build every time their lips met, he found himself relaxing into her; letting go of the anxiety that had had him wound tight for days,-no, weeks- on end.

Fiona was here. Sam's plan would work.

But he had to be honest her. He pulled back and stroked her face with his calloused palm.

"I let my guard down today, Fi," the ex-spy confessed.

He could still hear _his_ voice.

"_How do you justify that to yourself?"_

_"What does Michael Westen do when faced with a dead end?"_

"_There's a reason you have to be everyone's white knight, Michael."_

He'd given too much away to Anson today. Let him get more into his head than he already was. Not that it was his idea, but he'd still let it happen. He'd said too much from his heart.

"I did it for a friend, but now Anson's got even more—"

"S'okay," Fiona murmured, pressing her fingertips to his lips.

He kissed them too, so small and yet so deadly like she was. He fanned her hair out over the pillows, running his fingers through the silken tresses, and smiled down at her now. She was so beautiful. There wasn't anyone else in the world he wanted by his side, wanted in his bed. There never had been. There wasn't another woman like her. Where could he find her equal in the world? She didn't exist.

He reached out and slowly began to undo the buttons of his shirt until he had exposed her breasts. Those too were small and firm like she was. He'd always considered the male infatuation with big boobs to be infantile. He was never a man who cared for waste.

And what was between them was the most important thing in his world. Michael laid his hand onto her bare chest and felt her accelerating heart.

"This is where things make sense," he whispered.

He continued to unbutton the shirt until it was completely undone and then pulled it open with a flip of his wrist. Fiona's breath caught as he exposed her. He laid his hand again over her heartbeat and then it swept down between her breasts to her stomach, stopping just below her belly button.

"This is where it's safe; where I need it to be safe."

It wasn't fair to her, he knew, to ask her to put her life on hold because he needed her. He'd denied it for so long. He'd lied to her and lied to himself. But she had wanted the truth and that was the truth, that he needed her. He needed her to be his safe place, the one place where he felt loved and accepted for who he was instead of what he did; loving him sometimes in spite of what he did. Michael couldn't say it her; he was barely capable of thinking it after burying his feelings for so long. So he would show her.

Her lover moved his hand lower, running his fingers repeatedly through the fine hair there, which was just as soft as what crowned her head. She gasped at the contact.

He was surprised that Fiona was so quiet, so... submissive. Maybe she understood better than he thought. It's not like he wanted her that way all the time. He just wanted to show her what he couldn't tell her in words. He sat up for a moment and discarded his clothing. She took the hint and did the same, lying down on her back again.

He laid both hands on her breasts, fondling and teasing her, as he kissed her mouth, gently at first and then deepening the kiss. She took what he had to give, running her hands through his hair and moaning into his mouth. Then he pulled her to him, needing to feel the heat of her skin on his own.

Michael made the circuit several times from her perfect lips to her soft neck to her sensitive ear lobes while his hands caressed her arms, her back, her backside. She was making those sounds he loved. He moved his wild Irish rose onto her back again, pausing to gaze at her with all the love in his heart, wanting her to see in his eyes the things he could never bring himself to say.

Then he shifted his attention southward, taking each nipple into his mouth briefly before moving down to taste her. Fiona moaned even louder and bucked against him. The sound was divine music to his ears.

He had an idea then. There was always so much conflict between them, so much conflict that life inflicted on them, that he just wanted them to be in the same place at the same time. Maybe it was stupid, but that's what he wanted. Michael knew her body almost as well as he knew his own.

As Michael settled onto her, he pressed his mouth to hers with a fervent pressure. She rotated her hips forward and wrapped her legs around his waist, letting him set the pace. He did his best to make certain they would find release at the same time. As soon as Fiona was clenching and groaning out his name, he let himself go over the edge as well. Anson was wrong. Maybe he did feel like he had to save the world, but it wasn't so he could be...

"Safe at home," he muttered in her ear, shuddering and holding her close. No, this was home. This was where his world was right, even if he wasn't smart enough to remember that every hour of the day.

And then they were spent, panting and clinging each other as tightly as they could for the longest time.

Michael let out a sound that spoke of happiness despite the circumstances and then released her. He reached over and grabbed his discarded pyjama bottoms, slipping into them quickly. Fiona laughed lightly as he lay back down next to her, ducking his head under her arm to lie partially on her shoulder and partially on her chest. Michael laughed, too, just because he could now, and draped his arm across her body, giving her hip a gentle squeeze. Then he finally closed his eyes.

Sam's plan would work.

Because it had to.

Because he had no idea what to do if it didn't.


	6. Company Man  Part 1

**A/N - This takes place immediately before Mike and Fi's reunion in "Company Man." Thanks to everyone for the reviews, fav's and alerts and a shout out to all the utterly awesome ladies in the Padded Cell Club for helping me stay sane up to and through the finale! Mega thanks to the incredibly amazing Amanda for her reviews and encouragement and as always to the equally awesome PSU93Girl for urging me to go deeper and for her eagle eyes.**

**()()**

There it was again.

A minute ago, she thought she had been lying on her back staring at the ceiling in the loft.

Apparently, she had actually been studying the inside of her eyelids instead.

The phone trilled again and Fiona groaned. Not in a God-Michael-that-feels-so-good-way, but rather in an I'm-going-to-kill-whoever-is-on-this-phone way.

She had a headache and she didn't want to deal with whatever was waiting on the other end of the line.

Unless it was Michael.

She snatched up the phone and was immediately disappointed. She got angry at herself for getting her hopes up. Michael's sole form of communication, except for his extremely infrequent visits these past six months, had been encrypted text messages using their old IRA code phrases.

It actually made her homesick on top of lonely, but she was glad to know from time to time that he was okay.

Fiona thought about not answering it, but she knew that would only prompt a visit from-

"Sam," she groused. "It's too soon for a wake-up call and too late for a chat."

"Hello to you, too, sunshine."

Sam's demeanour told her what she needed to know. At least there was no bad news.

"And," she prompted.

"Well, aren't you little Miss Congeniality tonight? You're going to be sorry you were cranky when I tell you what Sammy's got for you."

She really shouldn't be mean to him. She actually enjoyed their banter most of the time, though it would defeat the purpose of it if she admitted that.

"Fine," she huffed.

"Remember the advance I gave you awhile back to get some clothes for that stakeout job down at the Fontainebleau Hotel? Well, tonight's your night, Cinderella."

"Seriously, Sam? It's almost 11:00 o'clock."

Sam had told her about that job months ago. Fiona had begun to think there wasn't actually a job at all. She'd started to suspect he had made the whole thing up as a way to give her some money for therapy shopping without having to admit it. She'd assumed it was to make up for those first couple of jobs they'd done after Michael left that had gotten more than a little out of hand. Still, she had been grateful for the distraction the work had provided.

"Come on, Fi. Those South Beach types don't even start getting dressed until after 10:00 PM," he chuckled. "Anyway, I just got word that our target should be there right around 1:00 AM. So, you put the tracker on him, I'll take care of his limo and we'll be having Bloody Marys for breakfast. Easy peasy."

Ms. Glenanne hauled herself up off the bed and stretched. "And why are we targeting this guy again?"

"You get to wear a dress that cost more than my entire wardrobe, drink on my tab, go to LIV and you're asking me why? Seriously?'

"Hm, you have a point." It would do her good to get out of the loft and onto the town. And if Sam was going to be footing the bill- "What's he's look like?"

Fiona walked to the area at the back of the loft adjacent to the bathroom where Michael kept his make-shift wardrobe. She ran her fingers wistfully over some of the Armani suits he hadn't taken with him.

"About six foot, dark hair. He'll be wearing a black suit, white shirt. Real classic James Bond-looking-kind-of-stuff, except, you know, Pierce-Brosnan-good-looking-James-Bond, not creepy-old-Roger-Moore–James-Bond." Sam laughed. "Hey, after a couple of drinks, you could probably squint real hard and mistake him for smooth talking Johnny."

"Not funny, Sam," she retorted crossly. She looked over at the ugly green chair across the room and remembered the time she'd been sitting there, watching him undress from his day as Johnny the car theft king, as he spoke to her in the lilting voice of Michael McBride.

We caused a lot of mayhem, you and I. He was your type of guy.

Yes, he was. Where'd he go?

Where, indeed? She had no idea where he was or when he was coming back. It had been so long since she'd seen him. Fiona swallowed thickly.

At least this time she occasionally knew whether he was dead or alive and what he was doing. She supposed that was an improvement.

"I know, Fi," Sam agreed quietly. "I miss having him around, too."

She bit her lower lip and tried to think of something to say. Mr. Axe saved her the trouble.

"Okay, then, we're all set. I'll pick you up in about thirty minutes. Can you be ready that fast?"

"To spend your money, oh yes," she declared as she closed the phone.

The scene was electric. The A-list crowd swayed and stomped to the music that thrummed through the air and the floorboards. The lower floor was at least 30,000 square feet, if she had to guess, and included one of the biggest dance floors Fiona had ever seen. The dual staircases, lit up like the Kodak Theatre on Oscar Night according to the club's PR, led upstairs to a slightly smaller area than the space below. The ceiling overhead was bright neon blue and filled with recessed lights like a star field along with lighting fixtures that projected a multitude of colours into the pervasive darkness as they swirled about: blue, purple and white, with flashes of green and gold intermixed.

She had chosen her attire well. The fabric of her dress shimmered and changed as the various lights throughout the club illuminated it: dark gray, blue, purple, light gray, almost black. Sam had jokingly told her- after he'd put his eyes back in his head that is- that it reminded him of the 'black pearl' paint job on an El Camino he had once owed. He'd earned a smack in the arm for the comment. They'd met briefly at the loft before she'd climbed into the classic black Lincoln stretch limo and they had headed towards Collins Avenue.

Fiona had chosen to wear her hair down since it made hiding her Bluetooth easier. On the other hand, it seemed everyone in Miami Beach these days had one permanently affixed to their ear, not just ex-SEALs, former guerrillas or covert operatives.

Although the air conditioning was running full blast, the amount of heat generated by the bodies around her, particularly when she passed through the dance floor, made her glad she'd chosen a sleeveless number with a loose cowl front. The long dress allowed her to more easily conceal her weapons and the long slit up the side, held together at the moment by something akin to but more expensive than Velcro, ensured she could be ready for action at a moment's notice.

Not that she was expecting trouble, but she'd learned long ago to never go out unprepared; even something as simple as a hairpin could pick a lock, blind an opponent or repair a sabotaged 9mm in the field. That thought brought her back to thinking about Michael, so she shook her head as if trying to clear it and ordered another G&T extra lime. It was her preferred drink when she was working.

She'd attracted a lot of attention when she had arrived and that hadn't changed once she entered the club. Fiona Glenanne was nothing if not heart stopping when she chose to be or virtually invisible if that's what the job called for. Right now, she would have preferred invisible. The next person who grabbed any part of her anatomy while she was passing by was going to lose a thumb or a finger... or both.

"You got the layout of the place, Fi?"

"Yes." She headed towards the DJ booth, which had the best view of most of the nightclub, preparing to chat up whoever was available while choosing her interception point.

"I'll let you know when our man shows," Sam assured her.

The music was infectious, the vibe was energetic and the drinks were free. Well, free to her, anyway. She supposed that was all she could ask for. Well, there was more, but there was no point in asking for it. Perhaps she'd take her target for a couple of turns on the dance floor before the night was over.

She'd half-heartedly complained to Michael the last time she'd seen him, which was months ago, that one day she'd like to be able to go dancing like a normal couple and not worry about who would see them or what they'd do to them.

Mr. Westen had made a joke in response that they went dancing every time he saw her. She'd never heard or heard of that song he referenced, but she'd hit him a couple of times for good measure.

Fiona started to let herself reminisce about what had happened after she'd hit him, but shook it off. Maybe a turn around the dance floor would burn off some of her frustration. She looked down and noticed her glass was empty again. The Irish woman smiled. Mr. Axe had made a serious mistake agreeing to pay the bar bill for a Glenanne.

"Looking for someone?" a well-dressed young man asked. She looked over her right shoulder at source of the voice. He was handsome by most standards: blonde haired, blue-eyed, tan and toned. High cheek bones, like Michael. But he wasn't her type, he wasn't her target, and he certainly wasn't the one she wanted to be with.

Still, a cover was a cover.

"Actually, yes," she informed him, smiling brightly as she turned to face him. So he'd noticed her surveillance. Of course, in a place like this, that didn't mean much. "He's taking for-ev-er." She added a little nasal whine to her comment, perfecting her "club girl" voice.

The man shrugged. "It's early yet."

Fiona groaned inwardly, but laughed outwardly. Only in South Beach would half past midnight be considered early. She sized him up. Years of practice and their recent run-in with Vaughn and company had made her extra vigilant. He seemed too young to have any significant experience, but there was something about the controlled way he held himself that made her suspicious.

"I'm going to get a refill," she announced, pushing past him as politely as possible.

She didn't have to look back to know he was trailing behind her. He was hopefully going to help her kill some time while she was waiting and then clear out quietly when the mark arrived. Fiona sidled up to the bar and nodded towards the woman behind it. "Something for you?" she asked him. She didn't want to get too involved with a cover, but the chance to run up Sam's tab was too good to pass up.

She was surprised when he ordered only a bottle of Fiji water and said so.

He shrugged nonchalantly again. "I come here to dance, not to drink." He held out his hand. "Derek."

Fiona took his hand and shook it.

"Livvy," she declared. Dancer, huh? That explained the posture and that was why Fiona was already on the dance floor when she got the call from Sam.

Derek was a good dancer; she'd have to give him that. Miss Glenanne would never admit to needing to keep up with anyone, but he was enough of a challenge that her competitive side kicked in, telling her professional side to get the hell out of the way. Besides, standing out on the dance floor a little would be a good way to catch her target's attention without being obvious. Besides, she was thoroughly enjoying herself.

That realization in turn made her feel guilty for having a good time while he was gone. That feeling quickly morphed into anger. Michael was the one who wasn't here. What was she supposed to do, sit around the loft and keep it tidy for him until he got back? In some ways, staying there was worse than staying in her condo would have been. It underlined his absence. Fiona determined she would pursue her house hunting with more earnest tomorrow.

"Head's up, Fi," Sam's voice chirped in her ear. "Johnny's on his way."

She didn't have time to be annoyed with him for the 'Johnny' wisecrack. Sam should have known he was going to pay for teasing her like that after she'd already warned him against it earlier. She decided she might just have to start buying rounds for the whole club.

Fiona started subtly manoeuvring their movements so as to take them back toward the front of the club. If she timed it right, she should be able to give the mark a little bit of show to catch his interest before exiting the dance floor on the pretext of getting another drink. That would put her in position at the bar. Her plan seemed to be going as intended.

Derek was still grasping her right hand at the end of a spin when she came into full body contact with someone from behind.

Whoever was behind her put a hand to her right shoulder and one to her left elbow; which she had been prepared to throw back at her potential opponent's solar plexus if needs be.

Someone had training.

In the split second it took for her to think that, familiar cologne wafted up to her nose and Michael's face appeared next to hers just over her left shoulder.

"May I cut in?" his low voice buzzed in her ear.

"Oh," she exhaled, freezing in place. His sudden appearance and his proximity had temporarily scrambled her brain.

"Oh, there you are! This is-" she started to gesture towards the blonde.

"My cue to leave," her dance partner confirmed, his blue eyes bulging. He dropped her hand immediately.

Fiona almost giggled at the stunned expression on the young man's face. She could only just imagine the one on Michael's face that had caused him to retreat so suddenly.

"It was nice to meet you, Livvy," Derek said as he backed away into the sea of gyrating humanity.

"Maybe I'll see you again sometime," she called before turning around.

Michael took her into his arms, squeezing her tight.

"Livvy?" he echoed in her ear, his breath sending chills down her spine.

"L.I.V., Livvy." Fiona shrugged and then whispered back. "Best I could do on short notice."

He released her slowly, sliding his hands down her arms until all he held onto was her hands and then he began dancing with her; never relinquishing his hold on them.

She drank in the sight of him. He was dressed like Johnny, except there was something different about the hair; still slicked back, but more of it somehow. She looked at their joined hands as the flashing lights of club caught the pinkie rings. They moved together and came apart to the salsa rhythms of the blaring music. She was grateful now for the refresher course in Latin dance she'd gotten from Derek just before Michael had arrived.

They were on their third dance when she finally spoke and broke the spell.

"So, Sam set me up," she concluded. Fiona wasn't sure if she was going to hug him or hit him for it the next time she saw him.

"Sam didn't set you up," he responded, drawing out the 'S's in his gravelly, smooth talking voice, "Johnny did."

"This was your idea?" she questioned as he spun her away.

"You said you wanted to go dancing," Michael replied in Johnny's voice. "So, Johnny's taking you out dancing," he pulled her close again, his lips almost brushing her ear, "instead of the CIA's newest civilian intelligence asset." There was more than a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

Asset, she thought. What the hell did that mean? Was he in or out? Was he staying or was this him just trying to ease the blow before leaving again more permanently?

"I need a drink," she announced. Michael followed her off the dance floor to the nearest open stretch of bar.

"So, Johnny," the Irish woman said softly, leaning in, as the bartender set their drinks down in front of them. "What's going on? How long are you in town for?"

"I can't tell you-"

Fiona huffed loudly and took a long pull of her G&T, wishing now it was something stronger and more familiar. Not a proper drink for an Irishwoman at all. Lord, how Sean would have razzed her for it had he been here.

"- because I don't know yet," he concluded. Part of his mind was still focused on Hector, who was no doubt sitting in a CIA interrogation room somewhere. "My business partners said they'd get back to me."

She wanted to make a crack about shoes and other feet, but she restrained herself. Obviously, Michael had put a good deal of effort into this operation and she was intrigued.

"So, Johnny, my dear, exactly how long have you been planning to surprise me?" she queried, playing along. "I was paid for this job weeks-" she trailed off, staring at him intensely under the shifting lights of the night club. It had been almost exactly as long ago as the last time he was in Miami. Had he really been planning this that long ago? Had he really been listening to her?

"Johnny pays attention," he answered, as if reading her mind. He'd taken the suit and jewellery with him when he'd left the last time. He'd had no idea when he was going to be back, no idea when the manhunt would be over, but he'd determined to be prepared when the time came.

The burnt spy had wanted a reminder to keep himself focused on who, as well as what, he was fighting for and, while he was totally focused on his mission to dismantle the organization that had burned him when he was in the field, he found himself looking at Johnny's suit every time he got out a change of clothes. It pushed him that much harder to end it definitively.

He didn't have much free time, but when he did, Michael had spent it sitting and thinking about Fiona, thinking about her staying at the loft while he was in various motel rooms and operations centres, thinking about what she'd done in that abandoned hotel, all the while slowly rotating Johnny's onyx and gold pinkie ring around his finger. He'd done it often enough for Max to rib him about it, though Max had no idea the significance of the gesture.

Mr. Westen leaned in close, his breath tickling her ear again, "So, when I got a plane ticket for a 22:00 departure, I made a phone call and here we are. I'm sorry, but I don't know when-"

"Well, I guess Sam was right when he set up this job," she cut him off with an impish smile.

Michael pulled back to look at her and chuckled. It sounded dangerous in Johnny's voice. "Never thought I'd hear you use those two words in the same sentence. How much have you had to drink?"

"Apparently, I do need to plant this tracker on you after all," she declared, speaking in a soft, seductive voice as she slid her hand into his front pants pocket. Fiona spread her fingers wide as she released the device, sending fire rushing through that part of his anatomy. "Maybe then I'll have some idea of where you are."

Michael swallowed hard, totally out of character, and freed her hand from its awkward position. He took a long sip of his own drink. "Shall we?"

"I think I'm ready to do that other dance you mentioned." Fiona wrapped her arms around his waist under his jacket and pulled herself tightly against him.

He finished the rest of his drink in one gulp and set it on the bar with clink. "Horizontal bop, it is."

Mr. Westen had let Fiona take point leaving the club. He'd learned over the years that following her had a number of advantages. For one, it pleased his partner that he trusted her enough to let her go first and Miss Glenanne could be very hard to live with if he kept her from having what she considered to be 'her share of the fun,' should any come their way. For another, it was easier to bat clean-up, so to speak, and keep an eye on her from behind her, ensuring that whatever fun she got into didn't get too far out of hand.

Finally, although he would never admit it, Michael got a huge charge out of watching Fiona kick ass. It didn't bother him one bit that she could outshoot him with a sniper rifle or that she had expertise that exceeded his in making things 'go boom'. She was more than capable of taking care of herself and him, if she had to-when he'd let her-and he loved her all the more for it.

He'd told himself for years that he was just bad at relationships, which he was; but, truthfully it was impractical and dangerous for him, as well as for that significant other, to be with someone who couldn't keep up with him or what his life threw at him on a daily basis. Still, he kept a hand to the small of her back as they weaved through the crowd and into the parking lot.

"What happened to the limo?" she asked, as they pulled away from the valet station in the full size rental car the CIA had so thoughtfully provided.

"Did you really want Sam hanging around all night?" Michael asked quizzically.

"No," she agreed thoughtfully, "But I haven't done it in a limo in a while. Might have been fun."

Since he knew they had never done it in a limo, he felt that same surge of jealousy. It was obviously past history and ridiculous that he should feel that way; but it still made him just as unhappy as when he had come into the club and spotted her dancing with her young partner, even though he knew it was part of her cover. At least, he thought he knew.

Fiona scooted over and began massaging his thigh. "Of course, I've never done it in the back seat of a Lincoln Town Car either," she purred.

"Too much like high school," Michael countered, accelerating as her hand crept higher. "I have better options now."

"Did you do this in high school?" she asked as her head drifted towards his lap.

Too many times, he thought. "Uh, Fi, let's not spend our first night together in county lock-up. Put your seat belt back on."

"Fine," she complained as she complied. But she continued to reach over and touch him in ways that drove him to drive even faster.

He opened the door and reached in to turn on the recessed lighting that illuminated the back of the loft. Michael started to go ahead of her to check the room, even though this was his place. The last six months had made him more careful than he had ever been. If he'd been cautious before, he probably qualified for down-right paranoid now.

Still, he'd caught the toe of his boot on a suitcase he hadn't expected to be there, just before he got an even more unexpected shove that sent him stumbling across the room, looking for any purchase his fingers could find.

A circular fan, one of Fi's snow globes and a ceramic mug were all victims of his head long trip towards the bed. As he was falling forward, she came around the back of stairs and met him on the left side of the staircase, slamming him up against the wire mesh that surrounded it and knocking the dartboard off in the process. He flailed, trying to get his balance, and sent a small night lamp crashing to the floor.

"Fiona," he gasped as she hungrily assaulted his neck with her mouth. "—Uh, Fiona. Don't you think we'd be- more comfortable on the bed?"

She started kissing the side of his face and grabbed handfuls of his pressed white shirt.

"What makes you think-" The tigress pulled the shirt open, popping buttons as she went, "that I care-"

She pulled the shirt off his chest with a rough jerk, effectively pinning his upper arms to his sides, "if you're comfortable?"

Fiona kissed him passionately before he could answer. They embraced tightly, as their tongues duelled for dominance. Michael had started to back her towards the bed when she surprised him by pivoting his body across her right hip and dumping him on the floor next to it.

He landed with a thud and grunt. She stood over him for a moment, her arm flung in the air like a matador. Then the Irish woman grinned at him triumphantly and launched herself at him.

She landed on his chest. Michael caught her with long groan as she knocked the air out of his lungs.

Fiona raised herself up on her palms and smiled widely down at him, her hair failing in a cascade over her shoulder. Her look said, "Welcome home."

He smiled back at her broadly and his expression answered, "Happy to be here."

Then he reached up for her, pulling her into a kiss that quickly turned in a deeper one. She ran her right hand through his hair and grasped the back of his neck tightly with her other hand, letting all her weight, such as it was, rest on him. He felt his ribs protest. Her hand drifted from his hair and onto his cheek as they continued to embrace and kiss eagerly.

As they kissed deeper and more aggressively, she ran both her hands through his hair, dragging her nails lightly across his scalp. Michael moaned into her mouth.

"You're not," she said breathlessly, now assaulting his neck again, "going to get that stuff," she bit his earlobe lightly, "on my 800-thread count pillow cases," she concluded, capturing his mouth.

Michael enthusiastically returned the kiss and then pulled back, desperate for air. It was hard to breathe with her lying on top of him and driving him insane at the same time. Something near his lungs complained about the pressure, but he ignored it completely.

"Stuff?" he echoed blankly as his Irish lover restarted her divine torture of his neck and ears.

She licked the length of his collar bone, causing him to shudder, as she ran her right hand repeatedly through his hair again. Then Fiona slid off of him and onto the floor next to him, making a trail of hair gel from his cheek to his chest, swirling the glistening goo onto his nipple, causing him to moan again.

"That stuff," she specified as she used the lubricant to torment him.

"I really haven't had a chance to get a haircut," he ground out. "I had to do something."

"Did you have to raid Barry's bathroom?"

"Why" he started to ask and then gasped as she applied her tongue to the most sensitive part of the other side of his chest, "are we discussing Barry?"

"I think we need to be discussing our bathroom," Fiona stated, as she stopped what she was doing. "I don't think Johnny wants this glop on his suit any more than I want it on my sheets."

"Your sheets?" he repeated stupidly, missing her touch. A minute ago she was ravaging him and now she was having laundry issues? She could be so damned mercurial. Sometimes it amused him, but now wasn't one of those times.

She kissed her way down his rock hard stomach to the waist band of his trousers, scattering his thoughts again.

"You asked me to keep an eye on your place. Did you not think I'd bring over a decent set of linens?"

Michael couldn't have care less what was on the bed at the moment, so long as it was them.

"Come on," she urged, pushing herself up onto her elbows and raising herself off the floor.

Michael groaned at the loss of the contact. Fiona looked at him questioningly.

"I thought the shower was your favourite place," she smiled sweetly. "Hurry up and help me out of my dress."

She sashayed toward the kitchenette, disappearing from his line of sight. He heard the water running as she presumably washed her hands. Her lover pushed up off the floor and kicked off his boots. She smiled at him as she dried her hands and he dropped his shirt on the bed. His slacks joined it a moment later.

Fiona smiled wider as she observed the tented fabric of his boxers. Yes, she was absolutely trying to drive him insane. Part of it was payback for him being gone all the time and part of it was because she knew how good it would be when she'd finally made him completely crazy.

She pulled open the seam of her long dress, revealing her calf, knee and then thigh. Fiona put one leg up on the bed and removed the stiletto and pistol from her leg holsters and then the holsters themselves. Michael felt his whole body ignite just watching her. She started to reach behind for the zipper of the dress.

"Let me," he croaked. She pulled her hair up out of the way and felt his hands linger on her back. A kiss between her shoulder blades made her shudder. Then the fabric blinded her temporarily before it landed on the bed next to his discarded suit.

Michael stepped up behind her and wrapped his arms across her stomach, pressing his hardness into her backside. She hummed with satisfaction as he then teased and massaged her breasts, rubbing his body against hers. He stopped long enough to flick her thong off her hip bones and she stepped out of it.

"Come," she repeated, pulling away from him and moving toward the bathroom.

He almost did so right then at the sight her naked, except for her high heels and her jewellery, walking sinuously toward the back of the loft. She was so incredibly sexy. Why was he always leaving? What the hell was wrong with him?

Oh yeah, burn notice.

Well, something was burning at the moment and it had nothing to do with that and that was all so close to being over with. He spared only a momentary thought for what progress, if any, Raines was having with Hector as he shed his boxers and socks and hurried to the bathroom.

He caught her bent over the heavy, old-fashioned claw-footed bathtub, trying to adjust the water temperature before turning on the shower. Fiona gasped as he pushed into her unexpectedly; arching her back and making him want her even more. Her hands clamped onto the edge of tub, knuckles straining as he continued to thrust hard.

Michael leaned over her, wrapping one arm around her waist to steady her as he plunged deeper. He moved his other hand to touch in her most sensitive spot. It put a strain on something that had been mistreated when Fiona had thrown him onto to floor, but he continued to ignore everything that didn't have to do with what, or more accurately, who he was doing. She was writhing against the divine pressure. It wasn't long before she was screaming his name and seeing stars. The sight, sound and feel of it had him joining her shortly thereafter.

"I'm... not... done... with... you," she declared in between sucking in mouthfuls of air, her chest heaving, as he continued to hold onto her.

"Fine," Michael returned with a silly, satisfied grin. He reached over her to turn the shower on.

Fiona pulled away from him very slowly, her face aglow, and then kicked off her shoes. She climbed into the tub carefully. He resisted the urge to smirk at the jerkiness of her movements.

She drew a deep breath to steady herself and commanded, "Sit," while pointing in front of her.

Michael shrugged and did as he was told.

TO BE CONTINUED.


	7. Company Man Part 2

**A/N - I hoped everyone enjoyed the cameo in Part I - Thanks again to the amazing Amanda, the awesome PSU93Girl and a shout-out to the utterly incredible DaisyDay, Purdy's Pal, StoryFan101, Haunted-Eternity and Coolaquariun - you guys are the best! Happy New Year to everyone out in Burn Notice FanFictionLand!**

Company Man - Part 2 

He sat down cross legged, the water beading on his disheveled hair. Taking a moment to doff her jewellery into the sink, Fiona climbed in behind and then reached over the top of him, grabbing his shampoo bottle off the small metal rack hanging from the front of the tub. Moving back, she saw a series of small new scars decorating his damp skin just above and below his left elbow that she hadn't noticed before; shot gun blast or shrapnel by the look of it. Suddenly, she stopped and set the bottle down between his legs. Fiona threw one arm over his shoulder and wrapped the other across his chest from underneath his arm, hugging him as tightly as she could.

"I was so-" she choked on the word, "-worried about you," she finished, pressing her cheek to his shoulder blade and trying not to let her voice crack.

"Fi..." Michael didn't know what to say. He settled for covering her hands with his and squeezing back.

"How long..."

"I honestly don't know. Could be tomorrow, could be next week."

"Not tomorrow," she whispered plaintively.

It seemed like she did all of her crying in the shower these days; that is, when she'd let herself do it at all. She cursed herself for wasting time doing it now while he was here with her, not knowing how long this would last. When did she get to be such an emotional mess? She continued to hold him close as the warm water cascaded around them, all the while knowing that this moment too would have to end regardless.

"I'm sorry, Fi," he said quietly.

"Me, too,"

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Mrs. Glenanne's eldest daughter pushed away the bad feelings, just as she had done with every other bad thing that had ever happened in her life. They would talk later. It was time to have fun.

"Let's get you cleaned up," she declared, putting on a cheerful voice, "and then we'll see about letting you near the bed."

Michael started to open the shampoo, but she snatched the bottle from him.

"I _can_ wash my own hair," he informed her dryly.

"Of course you can, but where's the fun in that?"

Fiona pulled him towards the back of the tub where the spray was less direct and poured an enormous puddle of shampoo onto her hands. Then she spread it liberally across his head.

"Hmm, I may have to get the Gojo off the workbench. I'm not sure if this stuff is up to the job."

He laughed lightly, struck again by her ability to change emotional direction with such agility.

"Maybe an industrial degreaser," she mused. Her fingernails scraped lightly across his scalp as she worked in the soap.

"This is really..." Michael started to say, 'not necessary,' but what came out instead was, "... nice."

"Oh, but it gets better," she assured him.

And it did.

When she was done with his hair, Fiona insisted on washing him down with a body wash. Michael had protested that he liked his Irish Spring just fine, which had caused her to laugh out loud. He was pleased to see her good humour return, so he didn't give her too much more grief when she produced a bottle that promised a clean, woodsy smell- rich mahogany so it claimed- as the result of its application.

And apply it she did.

Fiona took the task of getting him cleaned up and turned it into a full body massage. She worked from his neck, down his shoulders and into his back and he felt the months of tension come undone, as he gave himself permission to relax for whatever time he had with her, knowing as she did that it could end- no, would end- with a phone call.

She moved from her position at the back of him and then pushed on his chest until he was reclining against the back of the tub. Michael found himself chuckling. She was even more beautiful soaking wet and just as persistent. Fiona twisted around and turned the water off, as it was getting cooler.

"We're wet enough for now." He let the implications of her statement slide for the moment.

His wild Irish rose turned back to face him with a dazzling smile, settling on her knees between his legs, and then started working her way down each arm, from his shoulder to his wrist, first the right and then the left. Fiona drew a shaky breath as she ran her hand over his newly discovered scars, but made no other comment.

Michael took her face in his hands and leaned forward to kiss her softly.

"I'm okay, Fi. It's nothing," he promised her.

Fiona nodded mutely and turned her face to place a kiss of her own on each of his palms. Then the Irish woman drew back and captured his left foot; her dripping hair making a curtain that hid her face.

He gave silent thanks that he was not overly sensitive in that part of his body; too many years of being the boots on the ground. She could have- no, would have- had a field day with that; but as soon as she probed his instep with her thumb, Michael jerked back.

Fiona's head snapped up and her eyes bore into his. "I _know_ you're not ticklish. What did you do?"

"It's nothing," he maintained.

However, she would not be deterred; working through the kinks in both feet and his calves. They hit another bumpy spot momentarily when she started in on his knees. The covert operative refused to even think about, much less discuss, the building he had jumped off of that had caused that particular issue. He tried to pass it off as soreness from his ungraceful entrance into the loft, which he reminded her was her fault. Fiona wasn't buying it, but she wasn't calling him on it either, as she began massaging the large muscle groups on the back side of his thighs.

Michael felt a little guilty, lying there and letting her do all the work. At the same time, he was enjoying it far too much to argue and it was apparently pleasing her too, so... what the hell. He closed his eyes and let her have her way. Sometimes, giving in to Fiona had its perks.

But he had refused to get rid of this old cast iron bathtub, despite her badgering that it took up too much space in an already tiny bathroom. After losing the argument over the ugly green chair and the workbench, Ms. Glenanne had mostly given up and learned to tolerate the 'garage sale chic' decor of the loft, except for the tub.

While Mr. Westen was possibly the world's most unsentimental person, there was something about the tub to which he was attached. It was big enough that he could actually almost lie prone in it. He had already re-porcelained it twice in the last four years. This muscle therapy session would have been impossible otherwise, even in the garden tub of her now-destroyed former condo.

Besides, there was no way to remove the thing without a crane or shoving it out the door and that would have left a four foot crater.

While Fiona was working her way up the top of his thighs, he found that _almost_ every part of his body was relaxed. She skipped over that and began working her way down his chest with her hands while she ministered to his throat with her mouth. .

"I think that's cheating," Michael offered mildly.

"Are you going to punish me for it?" she snickered.

"I might," he murmured.

He jerked again when she hit the spot on his ribs that had impacted the floor, but she knew what had caused that. She apologized with a long, deep kiss, humming happily when she drew back..

"Am I forgiven?"

"Maybe."

He leaned in for another kiss, tracing her lips with his tongue before pushing gently into her mouth. As the kiss became more demanding, she let the now empty bottle slip from her fingers. It impacted the wooden floor with a hollow sound that startled her, breaking their lip lock..

She swallowed hard. "I think I can turn the water back on."

"And when do _you_ get cleaned up?" he teased.

"Now," she said, standing up and turning the spray back on. It was still a little cold and now it was his turn to jump.

"You get to sit there and watch," she declared as she reached for her preferred brand of body wash.

However, Michael demanded that he return the favour, although Fiona refused to lie down in the tub. Soon she had copious amounts of Irish Spring lathered on her on top of her body wash as he had decided that there was extra washing required on the 'dirty' bits. By the time he'd finished washing his wild Irish rose inside as well as out, she was clinging to him, seemingly unable to hold herself upright without some assistance.

Michael took that as his cue, slowly lowering both of them down to the floor of tub. Before long, they were facing one another, doing his favourite thing in his favourite position in his favourite place with his favourite person. Not that she was complaining. The water was growing colder again, but there was enough body heat as they embraced and kissed and moved against one another to create steam. Fiona had came back to life, riding him in alternating strokes, first long and languid and then quick and hard bursts.

Then it was Michael's turn to groan out her name. She was already past talking, breathing in ragged pants. They held onto each other, content to stay where they were. Somewhere, distantly in the back of her mind, Fiona was happy that there hadn't been any interruptions yet. Of course, it was only a few hours until dawn. She didn't know what tomorrow- well, later today- would bring, but she was determined to hold onto happiness, hold onto him for as long as she could. It brought a smile to her face as she wondered how many more times they could please one another before they were disturbed.

She noticed he was watching her, blinking water droplets from his long eyelashes. He had such beautiful eyes. They could be so hard and so cold, but right this moment they were filled with such affection that it warmed her soul, despite the fact that the water had turned down right frigid.

"I think we need to move before we catch pneumonia," he commented.

"Hmm, does that mean you'll call in sick?"

"Fiona," he chided with more laughter than censure. She reached behind him and turned the water off with a resigned sound.

"If we stayed here, how long do you think it would take before someone came looking?" Fiona asked, pressing her forehead to his.

"Do you really want Sam or my mom to find us like this?" he chuckled.

"Point taken," she agreed, gingerly climbing off of him and out of the tub.

The lithe woman bent over the tub and began wringing out her hair while Michael toweled off his hair and back, then wrapped it around his waist.

"You're spoiling the view," his lover complained.

He smiled and then kissed her as she straightened up. She guided him backwards towards the lavatory, which he ended up sitting on as the cold porcelain impacted the back of his knees.

"I didn't say I was done with you yet," Fiona advised him.

Michael blinked. "Do I get to leave the bathroom before dawn?"

"Maybe." She leaned in and kissed him softly. "Don't go anywhere," she admonished.

Making no move to cover herself, Fiona gathered up a comb, a brush and the hair dryer. She laid the implements across his lap and plugged in the dryer.

Soon she was straddling his thighs and dragging the comb through his hair.

"My, this _has_ gotten long. Won't the CIA pay for a haircut?" she joked.

"You know, I could do that myself," he pointed out.

She scooted closer. "You could. But it wouldn't be nearly as much fun." She turned the dryer on and he quit arguing again.

Michael couldn't understand how she could tolerate being naked like that. Not that he minded "the view" as she put it. He supposed he should be grateful that Fiona was something of an exhibitionist. But he found it hard not to cover himself. It made him feel vulnerable, something he avoided whenever possible, except those times that he had already let his guard down, usually with her.

Fiona was smiling and humming some lilting Irish melody as she continued to dry and style his hair.

It felt odd to Michael, all the attention. He was used to taking care of himself from a young age and he was far more accustomed to people trying to kill him than doting on him. He supposed when he was around more often- and he_ would be _around more often- he'd get underfoot enough that her temper would take over and she wouldn't be quite so attentive. He told himself that he should enjoy the moment because when Hector cracked-

_If_ Hector cracked-

"That's better," she announced. "Now you're allowed on the bed."

"What about you?" he returned, taking the hair dryer from her and picking up the brush.

Michael tried to brush her hair, but the angle he was working from and the thickness of her hair soon demonstrated that it would be impossible to do an adequate job. So he gave up and embraced her instead; kissing and hugging her, relishing the feel of her bare skin on his. After a protracted session of old school making out, she straightened up and sighed again, happily this time.

"I'll have to do something with this or it'll be unmanageable." She stood up and went to the mirror. Michael came up behind her and started applying the brush and the dryer again. It worked much better from that position. After a short while it was dry enough that Fiona declared herself satisfied with the results.

"Thank you, Michael." She stood up on her toes and kissed his cheek.

He hugged her tightly to his chest, basking in the feel of her again; content for the moment until his stomach decided to complain.

"Are we done now?" he asked.

Fiona reached into the sink and clapped her bracelets back into place.

"I think so," she agreed.

"Good," he scooped her up into his arms, surprising her and causing her to squeal with a delighted laugh.

Michael carried her from the bathroom to the bed. It was still mostly dark in the loft, though there was the moonlight from the windows and the recessed lighting in the back was still on. He sat her on the end of bed and shook this finger at her.

"Don't go anywhere," he repeated sternly.

"Maybe," she responded impishly, but her curiosity outweighed her rebelliousness.

Fiona watched him intently as he took their clothes and laid them on the ugly green chair next to the bed. Then he moved to the refrigerator, the large white towel around his waist standing out in the darkness. He retrieved two cups of the yogurt and two spoons and then returned to the bed. Sitting down next to her, he peeled open one of the cups and offered it to her.

"I'm really not hungry yet. Maybe later."

Michael's middle announced that it was hungry even if she wasn't.

Fiona giggled and then gasped as he pushed her onto her back down on the bed.

"What are you doing?"

"Eating," he responded.

He took the spoon and dipped it into the mass of blueberry flavoured dairy product. Then he spread it in a line across her clavicle. The cold food made her break out in goose bumps. Even though she knew what was coming next, she couldn't stop herself from shivering as he licked the yogurt off her skin.

"Are you sure you don't want some?" he inquired, putting a dollop on each nipple.

"You go right ahead," she said blissfully as he proceeded to remove the fluffy white substance from her breasts. This was going to be a night to remember; a night to hold onto when the lonely ones inexorably came. The night they'd spent in that un-wasted hotel room waiting for Gilroy to call flashed through her mind. Something _was_ changing between them tonight, just as it had then.

Michael gave her his thousand mega-watt smile and then proceeded to apply and lick the contents of both cartons off various parts of her anatomy, alternating between layering the treat on more mundane locations and then on more sensitive areas, certain of which he attended to repeatedly. He offered her spoonful's at random intervals, which she refused. Fiona accepted the times he let her taste it directly on his tongue.

Her lover was careful to avoid getting it in her hair as he snacked around her neck. He was less careful when he dumped the remainder of the second carton on the vee between her legs, causing her to shout his name in startled protest.

"Don't worry. You won't need another shower," he promised.

And he was as good as his word.

By the time he was finished cleaning up 'the mess,' Fiona was bucking and moaning so loudly he was sure they could have actually heard her all the way down in the nightclub if it had still been open. Michael paused to look down at _his_ woman: hair fanned out, limbs sprawled, beautifully flushed. He was grateful that there was at least one area in their lives where he was absolutely certain he knew how to please her. It made the guilt from continually hurting her, unintentionally or otherwise, a little less painful.

He wondered absently as he moved in again if he could convince Publix or Dannon to make Fiona-flavored yogurt. That thought had him chuckling in spite of himself. He shook his head and tried to stop, but another laugh came out.

Fiona raised her head up and fixed him with deathly glare. "That is _not_ what a woman wants to hear from a man in _your_ position."

"I'm sorry," he apologized with utter sincerity. "I just don't think I'll ever be able to eat yogurt again without thinking of you."

"Good." The Irish woman cuffed both of his ears with her knees.

Michael took the hint. "I think there's still some yogurt in the fridge."

She gave him a look of desperation that held a small promise of violence.

Okay, so pleasing her was more fun, and safer, than teasing her after all.

Besides, he loved it when she screamed his name, so he went to work making sure she did that several times in the next few minutes, as she got progressively louder as it went.

"Get... up... here," she tried to order, but it lost most of its effectiveness due to the fact that she could barely talk.

"Are you sure?"

"Only if ...you want... to live... to see the... dawn," she panted.

Michael looked out the window and determined he didn't have much time to comply. He mounted her quickly and she wrapped her legs around his waist, positioning herself just so. He gave it to her hard and fast, which was what they both wanted. Fiona was making more noise than he'd ever heard from her now and part of him was very smugly pleased by that. She felt like she was on the verge of passing out, each stroke building to an explosion she knew would be epic.

And it was for both of them.

Michael might have had time to be worried about how ragged her breathing was except his own senses went into overload and all he saw was Fiona through a white haze and all he could hear was a roaring in his ears, which turned into the sounds of his own laboured breathing.

He collapsed on top of her and she didn't complain a bit. It wasn't until much later that he rolled onto his back and pulled himself up on the pillows. Fiona snuggled into his chest and pulled the sheet over both of them. It wasn't lost on her that he hadn't made a move to dress. She concluded he was just as satisfied and exhausted as she was. It had been a night of mind blowing sex, but it was also a night that strengthen the emotional connection between them as well. They drifted off into a peaceful and dreamless sleep, the best either of them had had in months, no matter how short it turned out to be.

It was unavoidable that the call would come. Fiona was feeling generous after last night, so she didn't bite Sam's head off when he was the one to disturb them. As soon as he asked if he'd waited long enough to call, she had handed the phone wordlessly to Michael. It didn't matter when Sam called, it would have been too soon. The conversation was brief. She gathered from his side of it that Sam had something to show him at Madeline's house.

Michael did need to see his mother too, she was forced to concede. Maybe it would bring him back to the loft faster if he could take care of seeing Sam and Maddy at the same time. They lay together watching the light fill the loft, the picture of contentment; her hand rubbing the sore spot on his ribs while he lay on his back, one hand behind his head and the other lightly drawing absent circles on her spine.

They both concentrated on committing last night to memory. They both knew it was something special, something that was going to have to tide them over for Lord only knew how long. It had been months since his last visit;. it could be months before they were together again. Neither wanted to speak and say anything to shatter the warm glow, but that too was inevitable.

"How was the job?" she whispered.

She couldn't make out Michael's reply.

"I missed you," she said sincerely.

"Yeah, I got that. I think you broke a rib," he grinned, though he could feel the offended muscle group aggravating him again.

"So where were you this time?" she asked, wishing she could get away with putting one of those chemical spray trackers on him.

"Fi," he intoned.

Fiona rolled off his chest and snuggled into his ribs. She didn't want to put any distance between them, even if she was miffed.

"Right, right. right. right. You can't say. Secret spy stuff."

He smiled at the pique in her tone.

"Don't you find it somewhat ironic that for years we have been dealing with this little conspiracy-"

"I think a memo called it an unauthorized, quasi-governmental agency," he interrupted.

Fiona heaved a massive sigh and rolled over to face him.

"My point is, we fought the people who burned you for a long time, Michael."

Michael reached up and gently swept a loose strand of hair back behind her ear.

"Now they're on the run, the CIA hunting the bastards down and we're just out," she complained.

This was part that really hurt. She and Sam had been there for him when the agency had turned their collective backs on him for the last four years and now they were the ones out in the cold.

"I wish I could tell you, Fi." He could see the hurt in those beautiful green eyes. "I really do," he apologized, continuing to run his hand through her hair.

"It's been six months now. Mysterious trips around the world with _Max_. It just doesn't seem fair that _he_ should get to have all the fun." It didn't matter how upset she'd been with him for choosing to pursue this, she should have been the one to help him see it through. "I mean, he's your keeper, whatever?"

"He's my _agency_ contact. It had to be someone, Fi." His eyes pleaded with her to understand. "The CIA wasn't just going to let me go out there alone."

Fiona laid her head on his chest, focusing on his heart beat.

Michael looked down at the top of her head, admiring the highlights in her auburn locks. Then he looked around the loft, wondering if he could push Raines hard enough to get him to include Sam and Fiona in this next operation. It did only seem fair. He could just imagine Raines' reaction. His gaze shifted back to her as he started gently rubbing her back, whether it was to comfort her or himself he wasn't sure.

"When you got burnt, it wasn't just you." She remembered the arguments now, the anger, the bitterness she had felt towards him for endangering all of them by pursuing this during those tense days leading up to their confrontation with Vaughn. "These last four years have been hard on all of us."

Michael looked up at the ceiling again as though the answers were up there somewhere. "I know and I'm really sorry about that."

He turned his eyes back to the woman who had become so important to him, as important as the answers he craved.

"But we are so close to wrapping this up and then I can move on."

Fiona heard a promise in his words. She clung to it desperately. She'd made her decision in that hotel: for better or worse.

"I hope you find what you're looking for Michael, I really do." She needed closure, too. Badly. She felt him press a light kiss onto the top of her head.

"Then we can all move on," she concluded.

He looked around the loft again, seeing her things here and there and liking how it felt.

Moving on.

How completely and utterly he desired it, even though he had only a vague idea what it would look like or how he would achieve it.

He just knew who he wanted to have there with him.

But he had to get there first. He had a job to finish and he _needed_ answers.

And that meant leaving her again.

Michael decided that he would make it his mission to make her as happy as he could until he was called away again. Last night had been a terrific start; something he knew he would remember for the rest of his life, something he could hold onto, regardless of whatever else happened. While he was sure he wasn't up to that kind of performance every night, he was more than willing to give it his best shot.

_One of the things you give up in intelligence is control over your own schedule. It's a little like being a doctor on call. Only your emergencies tend to be thousands of miles away._

Fiona had gone shopping instead of going with him to Madeline's house. She told him it was because his mother deserved a little of his attention too and Sam would be enough of a distraction. Truthfully, it was because she knew what Sam had waiting for him. Mr. Axe had consulted with her about trying to get the Charger out of impound even before Jesse had the connections to accomplish the task. She still wasn't sure how he would feel about the car, or Jesse or any of it, so she decided to let them have a boys-only reunion.

Besides, she needed to pick up some things for him to take on his next trip and she decided she'd better not waste any time. Last night had been a precious gift, but Fiona couldn't shake the feeling that she would be paying the price for it soon.

Michael was subdued when he came into the loft, but he gave her his best game-face smile. She took a moment to admire "the view" again. It didn't matter if he was wearing dress shirts and slacks or polo's and jeans, he had an air about him, a magnetism that she was hopelessly drawn to.

She set down the carryout meal she had been preparing to serve on the table by the bed and walked over to him.

They hugged as though they been apart for days instead of hours.

"So, how was your mom?" she asked, settling back to look up into his gorgeous blue eyes.

"Fine."

Oh, yes, he was definitely distracted. Her heart sank as her suspicions were confirmed.

"Did you know that Jesse quit CIFA?" he asked suddenly.

"Yes."

He looked at her for a long moment. Of course, she knew. She was here and he wasn't. Jesse's words echoed in his head.

_"You know what it is? After everything I went through with you guys- helping all those people- I just- I can't do the government thing anymore. There's too much red tape. I just- it's harder than you think going back. You'll see."_

There was _no way _he was going to let go of this until he got the answers he was looking for, until he was certain they were _all _in jail or dead.

But what then? What would come afterwards?

Then he noticed the shopping bags littering the bed. He was confused at first. All of the bags were from menswear, sporting goods and Army surplus stores. She followed his gaze and answered the question before he could ask it.

"I know how much you hate to shop," she said simply. "And I know you must need some things by now."

She walked over to the bed and pulled a pair of insoles out of a plain brown bag. "I think these should help until you can get a new pair of boots." She remembered how touchy he was about his in-step. "It should keep you more comfortable in the field."

Michael was completely at a loss for words. "Fi-"

The distance between them was closed in an instant.

She could feel the tears stinging her eyes as they stared at one another.

"You're leaving today."

It wasn't a question.

"It's okay. Just be safe and come back to me soon."

He swallowed thickly, overcome by his feelings for her, tightening his grip on her.

"This has to be over... for us... to be safe."

"I know," she assented, seeing the determination and longing in his expression.

"You must be hungry," she said softly, dropping her arms and turning towards the table. "Can we have supper? Do you have time?"

Michael ducked his head and nodded, biting his lower lip. He would make time.

"Go get your bags so I can pack up for you," she requested.

He raised his head up then and cradled her face between his two large hands. He was overwhelmed by her kindness, by the caring and the devotion it spoke of. Fiona had rarely been this gentle, almost never this openly understanding. Although she had made it plain how she felt about him, he had become accustomed to an altogether different kind of compassion from her.

He didn't know how to express it or how it would change once the constant threat of impending separation wasn't hanging over their heads, but something _had_ changed between them during that time they'd held their lives in their hands, each willing to die for the other, neither willing to go on alone. They hadn't been given the time to process it together- they'd only had a small start last night- but they _would_ have time.

He vowed that they would.

As she stared back into his adoring blue eyes, she wanted to say it, but she couldn't. She wasn't going to put him on the spot like that and she was afraid of how it would make her feel if he still couldn't verbalize what she could plainly see written on his face.

And so they kissed; pouring as much love and commitment to one another into it as they could.

It was enough for today, it would be- would have to be- enough for tomorrow,

And enough until the day they could truly be together.


	8. Fail Safe

**_A/N: Just a little Michael and Fiona time to offset the Season 6 Premiere Angst. Love to all the ladies in the PCC - Amanda Hawthorn, Daisy Day and Purdy's Pal - don't know what I'd do without you. This BCM's is for you =) And thanks to everyone that reads, reviews and alerts, especially on the "M" rated page. This is a missing moment from Fail Safe right before the strategy session where Michael reveals he's supposed to burn his new CIA team._**

()()()

It had almost been three days since they'd last seen one another, but it had felt much, much longer.

Michael was still awake when she'd arrived at the loft so late on Saturday night that it was technically Sunday morning. He'd been sitting at the workbench going over the layout of the Miami Dade Metro Airport. They'd had to change their plans for extracting Reed Perkins due to some bad timing and a panicky driver. Even as he had said to Pearce, part of him wondered if that's all it really was.

Agent Pearce had said clearly that his first semi-official op with the Agency had turned into a very official disaster and he wasn't going to let that happen again. He was determined to be prepared for anything, especially after his meeting with Anson. The memory card Dr. Fullerton had handed him was still burning a hole in tan slacks he had worn to his meetings much earlier today. He hadn't changed and he hadn't eaten.

He was working and he was waiting.

What he had been waiting for arrived with a bang. The heavy metal door swung open and Fiona strode through the entrance looking as tired and stressed out as he felt. She stepped inside and dropped her bag on the floor. Reaching behind herself, the exhausted Irish woman gave the door a tug and then kicked it the rest of the way closed with a backwards thrust of her heel.

For a long protracted moment, they just stood there staring at one another. There had been no time, mercifully in Michael's opinion, to discuss any further what had happened at the parking garage three days ago. Worse things had happened since then. His rendition op on Friday morning had gone completely sideways and, more importantly, they had just lost all the evidence they needed to clear Fiona yesterday, vaporized in an explosion of epic proportions.

Suddenly, all the arguments and the tension between them that had characterized their parting melted away and they were drawn toward one another by the magnetism that they shared. The lovers met in a crushing embrace, Fiona reaching under his arms, curving her own along his back, and Michael encircling her from above, laying his wiry cheek along the top of her head.

How long they stood that way neither could say. There was an unspoken agreement that they would stand there and hold each until the sun came up or longer if they desired.

When Fiona had gone with Jesse to the Caymans, Michael had been worried she would take the opportunity and run. It was the perfect place to disappear from. She'd said so herself before they left. He'd argued with her and then he had made sure that the former CIFA employee understood what was not to happen while they were on their field trip.

While he trusted Jesse, he also knew that those two had a very different relationship than she had with Sam. The ex-SEAL was usually the voice of reason. a much needed counter balance to the former guerrilla's high risk, high reward way of doing things. She and Mr. Porter were more like Bonnie and Clyde when they worked together in Michael's estimation. Still, Jesse had kept her from blowing Anson's brains out with the sniper rifle at the mall the other day, that being no small feat.

He tried not to think about who had stopped her from using the sniper rifle on Anson the second time. He had always been in control most of his adult life, something he valued highly after a completely out of control childhood. Even when the situation was off the chain, he'd always had a handle on himself, three years in the Rangers had seen to that. That is, until a certain Celtic warrior woman had stormed the gates to his heart. His need to be in charge was one of the reasons he had fought his feelings for her for so long. She played havoc with his senses, always had.

Fiona for her part had been furious to discover that Sam had talked Michael into using Anson. She understood doing anything to help a friend better than most, but that had been above and beyond as Sam had put it when she had reamed him out for doing so on their five hour road trip to Tampa. She had trusted his long time friend to keep her lover from getting any more involved with that sleazy snake and she was definitively not pleased with his results.

She could see the toll his presence was taking on Michael, who became less himself every time the DIA psychologist got another chance to pour poison in his ear. But the last thing she wanted right now was to talk about Anson Fullerton and how he had apparently outsmarted them again. It would only lead to another argument about how to end his hold on their lives and it had been far too long since things had been peaceful between them.

"Let's not talk about it," she whispered. "Not yet."

"Okay," he agreed mildly, pressing a kiss onto the top of her head.

They stood there another long moment in time, rocking gently and soaking in one another's presence.

"What do you want to do?" he asked quietly.

"Go to Mass." Her answer surprised him. "We've tried everything else."

Michael didn't bother to tell her he hadn't stopped petitioning God since the day of the consulate explosion.

"A little early for that."

She sighed and hugged him even tighter.

"I meant later. Right now, I'm exhausted, but I really need a shower."

"I thought you'd never ask." And the smile was evident in his voice.

Fiona leaned away to look into his red rimmed eyes and smiled too. He looked as tired as she felt, but there was something more important than sleep on both their minds at the moment.

"You're going to have to let go if you want me to walk to the bathroom," she said softly, gazing up at him with passion filled eyes.

"Sorry, I can't let you go," he whispered fervently.

He lowered his hold on her so that now her arms were pinned under his. Fiona gasped as he squeezed tight and then lifted her slightly off the floor. Michael spun her around, reversing their positions in the next second so that his back was now to the bathroom door.

He loosened his grip and leaned in to kiss her while simultaneously backing her towards the tiny bathroom at the back of the loft.

Once inside, Michael pulled back and reached for the hem of her outer shirt, pulling it over her head on one quick motion. He stiffened just for a second as she reached for the front of his light blue dress shirt.

"Don't worry," she chided as she slowly undid the buttons. "I'm too beat to rip it open and I know how much you hate sewing them back on."

"Seems like every time that happens, you end up with a new night shirt," he commented, rubbing his hands over her shoulders while she expertly unfastened his dress pants.

The weight of what was in his pockets caused his slacks to hit the floor immediately and then the weight of what was in his pockets, the memory chip that he had taken from Anson, caused his heart to clench. Looking down, he stepped out of pool of tan fabric and shoved it away with his foot.

The image of him wearing everything but his pants, his shirt hanging open, caused Fiona to laugh lightly. He plastered a "winning smile" on his face before looking up at her again and wrapped his hands around her waist, pulling her towards him and kissing her again before she could notice his distraction.

As the kiss deepened, his hands slid around onto her nearly bare back, caressing from the top of her shoulder blades down to the pockets on her jeans. In response, she wrapped one arm around his neck and threaded her other hand through his short black hair, sending a wave of tingles down his spine.

Michael grabbed her backside and pressed her against himself, wanting to feel her as well as taste her. Their tongues continued their exploration as she felt more than their passion growing between them. Fiona hummed with pleasure and raked her nails across his scalp with both hands.

It was Michael's turn to groan and then they broke the lip lock, both breathless and helplessly locked in one another's gaze. The rest of world melted away as they stared at each other, absence truly making their hearts grow fonder.

She forgot how angry she was with him for protecting that bastard, how disappointed that they had lost the evidence, how frightened she was, not for herself, but for him. The only thing on Fiona Glenanne's mind at that moment was she needed to take her shoes off before she could get out of her suddenly too tight blue jeans and she said so.

He chuckled and attacked her neck, not releasing his hold on her one iota. This was why he loved her so much. She could bring him down, but that was nothing in comparison to how she could lift him up again. Eventually, the Irish woman snaked a leg around, positioning her knee just below his.

Michael took the hint, deciding he'd rather make love to her in the shower than on the floor and released his hold. His lover smirked at him as she backed away to sit down on the toilet and start unlacing her wedges. The dark haired man perched himself on the edge of the tub and removed his own shoes and then socks before standing and shrugging out of his shirt.

He turned towards her as she was shimmying out of her jeans. Fiona closed the distance between them and began circling her thumbs across his nipples, causing him to moan out loud.

"I love it when you're bare chested, Michael," she informed him as she set his whole body on fire.

"No fair," he objected, pulling her other top off and exposing her own hardened peaks. As he lowered his mouth to first one and then the other, it was her turn to gasp and groan aloud. He laid tiny butterfly kisses on her flesh until he'd worked his way back up to her mouth, pressing her against him once again.

Now, Fiona pushed him back slightly and returned the favor, kissing her way back down his chest, with a stop to torment him with her tongue on the right and then the left, before sliding down onto her knees and taking his boxers with her on the way down. He sighed in anticipation and tangled his hand into her beautiful auburn locks.

Unexpectedly, she jerked away from him, but his fingers soon solved the puzzle. His lover had a large knot on the back of her head.

"Fi?" he questioned, pulling her to her feet.

"It's nothing, Michael," she said dismissively. "I cracked me head on the concrete when the warehouse exploded."

"Ah, Fi." He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her lightly on the forehead. "You could have a concussion," he chided.

"What I have is nothing more than a bump on the noggin." She wasn't about to confess that she'd had enough of a headache to let Sam drive her baby part of the way back from Tampa.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"I don't want to talk about it," the redhead returned with an impish smile, reaching between them to put her hands where mouth had almost been the moment before.

"Isn't that my line?" he finished with a groan. He knew continuing to inquire about her health would only result in her touch going from pleasurable to painful so he let it go and her as well.

He reached back to turn on the water and then took a moment, while it was coming to temperature, to flick her thong off her hip bones and then reached out his hand to reciprocate her ministrations of a moment ago. By the time the water was warm enough, they both had put any thoughts about what was on the back of her head to the back of their minds.

"Shall we wash up first?" she teased, reaching for the body wash as she climbed into the bath.

"No," he countered quickly, taking her straightway to the bottom of the tub with him.

Fiona knew what he wanted as he sat with the spray pelting his back and wetting his black hair. Since she wanted it too, she straddled quickly him and, laying her hands on each of his shoulders, moved into position with a moan of pleasure that brought an answering groan from deep within his chest.

She moved slowly against him, never taking her eyes from his beautiful blue orbs. Their gazes remained locked on another as feelings of love swelled in their chests and feelings of ecstasy shot along every nerve ending. His hands roamed up and down her back as she moved in a deliciously slow, steady rhythm that soon gathered speed. She didn't want it to end, but she couldn't stop herself from giving into the building orgasm.

Fiona then closed her eyes and threw her head back, the water slinging from her saturated hair in a spray, and her nails dug into his taut arm muscles as she came completely undone. The sight of her shattering above him did what it always did to her lover and he quickly found his own release, his own fingers digging into her back muscles as he crushed her to his chest, burying his face in the wet auburn curtain of her silky tresses.

When her breathing leveled out, she reached behind him and picked up the bar of Irish Spring. Dipping her arms under his, she began running her soapy hands across his back and neck with a soothing touch without bothering to move from his lap and break their connection.

"We're going to run out of hot water again," he commented.

And they did.

Afterwards, Michael's stomach had started complaining before they had even finished drying off.

That had made her smile momentarily until another thought crossed her mind. "Is that for me or have you been too busy to eat again?" she asked, trailing after him as he pulled a pair of pajama bottoms from his wardrobe.

"I've had some yogurt." His smile was seductive. "But I've been missing my favorite flavor."

"Maybe later." Her answering smile was dazzling as she pulled one of his old dress shirts from its respective drawer. Holding the garment on one hand, she wrapped her other arm around his neck and kissed him soundly before pulling back, "Blueberry will have to do for now. I need some sleep."

"Okay," he agreed, but he didn't release the hold he had on her waist. "Later then," he murmured leaning in for another deep kiss.

"You eat," she ordered when their lips parted and his stomach growled again. "You know where I'll be."

_()()_

_There has to be a way out of this. There has to be. I just need a little more time._

Even with Fiona pressed into his side, her head against his shoulder, her arms draped against his chest, he couldn't quiet his mind. It was stupid he knew to waste the time he had with her worrying, but he couldn't help it.

**"_Unless you're willing to see your girlfriend go to prison for the rest of her life, you will do exactly what I say."_**

_There has to be a way out of this that doesn't involve Fiona on the run or in jail for the rest of her life._

**"_He'll keep forcing you to do his bidding. There is no end to this."_**

He unconsciously tightened his grip on her shoulder as if someone could take her away; actually steal her out of their bed. She stirred at the added pressure and looked up at him blearily.

"Michael," she said in a sleepy but irritated voice. "Quit grinding your teeth."

"Sorry, Fi."

His lover reached up and laid her small hand along his jaw line.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she queried, already knowing the answer.

"No," and he chuckled at her irritated huff. "I'd rather tell you and Sam and Jesse all at the same time."

"Then stop thinking about it," she commanded.

Mentally, he snorted. _How can I not think about it?_

**"_I know. It __sounds wrong, but ultimately it's not so bad. If you do this, you and Jesse walk away clean and Pearce and three people you barely know have to get new jobs. If you don't do this, Fiona goes to prison for-ev-er and dies in a cage. Which is worse, right?"_**

His own words came back to haunt him then.

**"_Better she get another job than Sam buries a friend."_**

_I know what Anson is trying to do to me. Moral relativism was the trickiest part of being a spy, but-_

"Mic-hael," she drew his name out as she said it, "Don't make me slap you."

"How about you distract me instead?" he requested, quickly rolling her over onto her back.

His need for her had always been there, though he had kept it hidden and buried it deep for a long time, but lately it had become insatiable.

She winced as the raised welt hit the pillow.

"How's your head?" he queried softly, running his fingers through her long auburn tresses.

"Distract me," she suggested.

The greater the pressure the outside world brought to bear on him, the greater his need to find release in his inner sanctum had become. Once upon a time, she had been part of the pressure, now she was the only thing that truly provided relief. Now that she was in his life again as she had been in Dublin, he couldn't imagine going back to what it had been before. He couldn't lose her again. It had been too hard to come back from losing her the first time.

So he caressed and worshiped her body with his hands and his mouth and she let him. Fiona on the whole enjoyed being more aggressive in their relationship. Sexually submissive was not in her vocabulary for a variety of reasons. But she could tell what a toll this situation was taking on him.

While she couldn't back down, didn't dare back down, while they were working on a way to foil Anson Fullerton and his diabolical schemes, while she was trying to keep him from going down a dark road from which he might not return, but she could let him take the lead here, in this part of their lives when he needed to, which seemed too often lately. Lying still while he drove her insane with need was difficult, but it was a small price to pay, given the greater costs that loomed on the horizon.

So she let him love her the way he wanted to, which ultimately was never a bad thing. Michael's hands were everywhere, touching and teasing, and his mouth followed in their wake, bringing her to the edge and over repeatedly as her breasts ached from pleasure and her body writhed from the magic he wove as he stroked her most intimate parts, hitting all the right spots again and again.

When Fiona thought she would finally go mad from carving to be filled by him, he obliged her. That too was slow, glorious torture, as if Michael wanted to stretch out the time that they moved together indefinitely, gazing into one other's eyes with love, desire and need all mingling together. His mouth was a hot brand on her lips, her face and her neck and he urged her to hold him ever tighter as he moved faster against her. It was as though he couldn't get close enough to her to satisfy whatever longing was in him.

When he was finally cradled on top of her, lying encircled in her limbs after having brought them both to ecstasy, their bodies joined together in an intimate tangle, his head buried in her shoulder as he shuddered and gasped out her name, she hoped he was finding the peace he needed to carry him through.

()()

Both of them could feel it. Once Sam and Jesse came over for the strategy session, scheduled for after lunch, this brief respite from the outside world would disappear. Fiona wanted to discuss it between them, try to make him see reason, before they had an audience, but Michael looked so tired and so tense, she decided there was plenty of time to be angry with him later.

As she stood next to him drying their breakfast dishes, and she had to admit that he did make the best egg white omelettes, her mind drifted back to their conversation about Jesse's friend and how he'd chosen to die to take out a dirty diplomat who was dealing blood diamonds. Ian's choice had deeply disturbed Michael.

"_Ian didn't have to die like that,"_ he had declared at length.

"_It was his choice," _she'd reminded him.

"_Think it was worth it?" _

Michael was well acquainted with the concept of sacrifice for the greater good, so she couldn't understand why he was having such an issue with a dying man choosing to give his death meaning. Would it have been better to die of cancer?

"_I think some problems can't be solved without good guys dying."_ Plenty of good people had died before there was something resembling peace in her homeland.

"_There's always a way. There has to be."_

She had suddenly realized that the conversation really wasn't about Ian anymore.

"_No there isn't. Sometimes there isn't no matter how hard you try." _

Sometimes there were no good choices. She had wanted to go to Pearce with everything, but Michael had made it clear that now was not a good time to let his CIA handler know he'd been lying to her again. That left running or surrendering. There weren't any other options.

"_I'll never believe that."_

"_That's what I'm afraid of,"_ she had whispered. Michael's ability to focus intensely, obsessively in some cases, made him a great spy, but it almost gave him a tunnel vision that had already almost proved fatal.

She sighed and shook off the past. They had just enough time to get down to St. Patricks and maybe take a walk on the beach before Sam and Jesse showed up. Because once they got back, the kid gloves were coming off.


	9. Last Stand

**A/N: **This story is set a couple of months after the ending of Last Stand (4.18) and covers the last two times Fiona saw Michael before he disappeared on his six month plus mission to track the organization that burned him from the NOC list. It is also a prequel of sorts to the next chapter of PKGTB's which re-boots the 5.01 premiere (High Risk, High Reward) on Monday and a belated birthday offering for DKougar, BurnerNoelle, Christin and Arifa7. As always, love to the PCC, Amanda Hawthrone, Purdy's Pal and Daisy Day, you rock how I roll and all the wonderful women of Burner Fame on FB and Twitter!

()()()()()()()

_Jesse Porter was a dead man._

_A busted knee cap, broken bones, shattered nose, cracked ribs, split lips, black-eyed dead man._

_Just as soon as she could get out of bed and inflict the desired damage on him._

She was rolling around on the bed she sometimes shared with her absentee lover in the cavernous place he called home. As Fiona Glenanne contemplated the demise of the most recent member of their team, she tried to get the energy to go to the bathroom and throw up. Her head hurt, her stomach rebelled and she was exhausted and miserably hot, although it was not that hot in the loft for a change. This was one of the few times of the year no air conditioning in Miami was more than just bearable.

The tall, bald man had been in the hospital only a couple of days to have his leg treated, but he had somehow managed to strike up a relationship with the diminutive but forceful redheaded ER nurse who'd dressed his wounds and tended to him overnight. That the relationship had lasted beyond the initial "pants on fire stage" was a surprise to the petite Irishwoman.

Her own relationship with Jesse had taken a few detours, but running off to die with Michael instead of helping the injured man escape with the NOC list had pretty much said where her loyalties lie…though during the times when Mr. Westen was gone like this—she hadn't seen him in six weeks at this point with no word at all- she sometimes wondered what she was hanging on for… But, when it came down to it, _she belonged with him, for better or worse, and she had known that there would be plenty of __'__worse__'__ from the moment she met him._

So it was a strange interlude between them when Jesse had kissed her again, a quick, happy, brotherly kiss on the cheek that went astray in his hurry to rush off to implement the relationship fix she had suggested with the new lady in his life and her turning to insert one last comment about his choice of an ER nurse and the usefulness of someone medical in their lives again.

For a long moment, they had stared at each other with weird "what if's" drifting through both of their minds before he had coughed, a little too close, and had actually kissed her on the cheek, though she refused to admit that she had stiffened as he was leaning in and clearly telegraphing his intention to encompass her cheek bone and no other part of her face.

Only it turned out that Jesse's girlfriend hadn't been nasty to him because of something he'd done. She'd been bitchy and short tempered because she'd caught the flu from one of her Saturday night shifts at Miami General and subsequently had succeeded into giving it to Mr. Porter, who in turn had signed his own death warrant by infecting Ms. Glenanne with it.

Forcing her shaky self off the bed, the former guerilla checked the locks, the windows and the security before heading to the bathroom. She might be at the mercy of a nasty virus, but she had no intention of being inattentive as a result. If anything, her weakness made her more cautious. She wanted nothing more than to stay curled up in his bed, but she had a job to do and they were already one team member down. Part of her was secretly pleased that the bug he had given her was apparently kicking Jesse's ass far harder than it was getting to her.

She started the water to let it warm up and then stripped away her sweaty clothing, sitting her H&K on the toilet tank. Fiona had been staying at the loft since her wayward lover had disappeared into that Agency limo. She didn't really think Michael would mind. After all, it kept the place occupied and, though she loved Madeline dearly, she couldn't live with her. The smell of cigarette smoke had permeated the Westen household decades ago.

It was strange being here, not knowing when she would see him again. During his previous disappearances, she had her own place. If she tried hard back then, she could pretend that Michael was puttering around the loft or chasing down clues to his burn notice with Sam. Living here alone without him just underscored that the covert operative was _gone_ for the time being.

She would eventually have to go condo shopping and get a new place, but for now it just seemed to make sense to stay here. Ms. Glenanne assumed that she'd see him back here when- she refused to think of it any other way- he returned or one of his many enemies would come here looking for Mr. Westen, which promised a bit of fun to alleviate the boredom.

Either way, it worked for her.

As she did often these days whenever she got into the shower, Fiona remembered the first time she'd seen Michael after he'd been taken away by what turned out to be the CIA. Couldn't the bastards have just let _someone _know?

_She'd gotten a text from him after eight long days…One word. It was IRA code for 'I'm alright, but I've gone underground.' She hadn't known whether to laugh or cry, so she'd done a little of both. Since Jesse had blown up her condo, she'd had little more than scraps left, but somehow shopping for all new clothes and shoes__-__ of course__,__ there was always shoe shopping- hadn't been as satisfying as she'd hoped. _

_Then another two days had gone by and it had become ten days since she'd last seen him standing by Jesse's stretcher at the abandoned hotel where they'd almost died. She'd gotten another cryptic text that morning, so cryptic that she had no idea what he was trying to tell her._

_Fiona had finished washing her hair and wringing out her saturated auburn locks when she'd reached out to shut off the shower and heard the lock turning on the heavy metal front door. _

_Unsure if it could be Michael or someone else, she had left the water running and had climbed into the space behind the door, pressing her back tightly against the wall and holding her automatic ready. Seconds later, she__'d__ found herself nose to barrel with Michael's SIG Sauer. _

_The look of surprise on each of their faces had quickly turned to chagrin when a voice she didn't recognize had called out._

_"Problem in there, big guy?"_

_Michael's face had become a mask of frustration and desire. It would have been comical if she hadn't been pretty sure she'd been wearing the same look herself. _

_"No," he__'d__ answered. "Be right there."_

_"Stay here," he__'d__ mouthed. Fiona had belatedly realized she'd only been wearing a towel and the rest of her clothing was out there with whomever Michael had brought along with him. _

_"Please?" he__'d__ implored in a whisper_

_Then Mr. Westen had quickly plastered a smile on his face and exited the bathroom. _

_"Looks like you're already packed up and ready to go," she__'d__ heard the other voice say._

_"Actually, Max, I think that's the house sitter's stuff. Guess she got here before me. I still have to pack. Of course, if the CIA wants to buy me a whole new wardrobe-"_

_"Not in this economy," the man called Max had countered with a laugh. "No offense, but it doesn't look like there's much here to steal."_

_"You'd be surprised," he__'d disagreed. "Uh…__ this is going to take a while. You mind picking us up some lunch? There's probably not much in the frig besides out of date yogurt."_

_Max, whoever he was, had apparently agreed. She__'d__ heard Michael subtlety steering the choice of food towards restaurants that were well away from the loft and giving Max directions guaranteed to take him on a tour of all the worst urban planning mishaps in District Four._

_The redhead had waited until she heard Michael move away from the kitchen window, no doubt checking to make sure that the other man had indeed driven away._

_"The house sitter, Michael?" she had queried as she'd exited the tiny bathroom at the back of the loft. They had walked silently towards one another, their eyes each assessing the others' state of health warily. _

_Then he__'d__ smiled and shrugged. "It worked." _

_She had met him in front of the work bench, still clutching the towel in one hand and her weapon in the other._

_"Who was that?" she'd asked, drinking in the sight of him_

_"That was Max, my agency contact."_

_"Agency?" she had echoed with a slight quiver. "Are you-"_

_He__'d known__ immediately what she was asking. "Not exactly."_

_The Irish woman had wanted to make a smart remark about how it felt to be left hanging, but Fiona__'d__ had more pressing matters on her mind._

"_So, I'm guessing you're not going to be around__ very long," she'd tried to keep everything but polite interest out of her voice and had not succeeded._

"_We're going through every name on the NOC list until we get to the head of the organization. We—Max and I, that is—" _

_As Michael had moved towards her, he'd run into her bag by the bench and had suddenly been reminded of the suitcases at his feet. His brow furrowed. "What's going on, Fi?" _

_Suddenly Fiona had felt uncomfortable and unhappy. Was he upset with her for being here? _

_"I- I don't have a place right now. I just thought while you were gone..." she__'d__ trailed off until his full blown trademark megawatt smile had spread over his face._

_"So you are the house sitter." _

_Michael had taken her pistol from her hand and laid it on the work bench, followed by the towel. He__'d__ looked over her naked form appreciatively and then he swept her into a crushing embrace, latching onto her mouth with such intensity it took her breath away and the sensation of his blue knit sweater and jeans pressing against her bare flesh has set her whole body on fire._

_Her lover had walked her backwards towards the bed. Then he__'d laid__ the towel on it, followed by her and then himself as he'd lain on top of her, covering her naked form with his muscular frame and pinning her onto the mattress. _

_His tongue had pushed against her teeth and then that familiar dance of oral delights had her sighing into his mouth, a deeply relieved sound. She had threaded her hands through his dark hair, scraping along his scalp, before he had started kissing and licking his way down her body, a curious mixture of savoring each stop__-__ her ears, her neck, her breasts… oh__,__ her breasts__… __ her stomach- but having a final destination firmly in mind._

_"We should have some time before Max gets back with lunch." _

_He__'d__ slid off her and knelt at the foot of the bed between her dangling legs. She__'d__ gasped when Michael had grabbed her calves and pulled her limbs over his shoulders. The look on his face and his proximity had sent shivers throughout her bare body._

_"So there's time for desert first__,__" he'd declared low and husky, sending another wave of desire through her heated flesh. He'd slowly kissed his way down the little landing strip of downy hair before the hands that were massaging her inner thighs spread her legs farther apart and he'd delved his tongue into her depths._

_Fiona had felt like her eyes were going to roll out of the back of her head as he'd kept a slow steady rhythm, stroking his tongue from the center of her core to her most sensitive spot, with special attention being paid to that tiny sensitive part of her anatomy. The feel of the tip of his tongue stroking against her clit soon had her writhing in ecstasy and she had come fast, trying to pull away as her orgasm had hit hard, but he'd held her firmly in place as he'd lapped up her juices._

_Her chest had been heaving and her heart pounding as she'd tried to draw a breath. Through the stars in her eyes, she'd seen the satisfied smirk spread across his countenance. She had determined that she'd wipe it off his face just as soon as she could find her legs again, which had turned to jelly along with the rest of her muscles._

"_I think we could both use a shower," Michael had declared and he'd grinned broader as she'd responded with nothing more than utterly sati__sfied moan. Fiona'd decided then there would be time to make him pay for his arrogance later, regardless of how much later that turned out to be. _

_He'd scooped her up off the bed, cradling her in his powerful arms__,__ and she'd marveled at the sensation that had rushed through her totally against her will. It had felt really good to be resting in his embrace and she had known that__,__ with a CIA agent on his way back with lunch any minute now, there'd have been no time for cuddling afterwards and the shower didn't offer much in the way of coziness outside of the comfort of being intimately entangled with one another._

_When Michael had deposited her on the already damp bathroom rug, she'd stumbled slightly and he'd encompassed her again in a tight hug, kissing her forehead before nestling his cheek on the top of her head. She'd reveled in the closeness, the feel of his clothing against her bare skin again sending waves of fire to her already overheated core._

"_You're overdressed," she'd whispered into h__is chest and his grip had slackened. She knew there was a part of him that secretly enjoyed the sight and the feel of her nudity in contrast to his clothed state, but they hadn't had much time to indulge in such things._

_He'd kissed her one more time on the forehead before releasing her completely to start up the shower again. She'd watched appreciatively as he__'d__ removed each article of clothing and exposed another part of his body, his broad muscular chest and arms, his toned legs and most particularly his dripping manhood. He__'d held out a hand __for her as she'd climbed into the tub and let the spray wet her body once again._

_They'd come together under the water, closely joined and kissing ardently as his hardened length had pushed firmly against her stomach. Then they'd broken apart, giving her enough room to take him into her hand and his answering sound was almost guttural growl._

"_I need you, Fi," he'd whispered into her damp ear and then had lowered them to the bottom of the tub. She'd known exactly what he wanted and__,__ moments later, she'd been sitting astride his lap, happily impaling herself on his engorged penis, moving against him as his hands had landed atop her hips, massaging the flesh there and setting the pace._

_As much as they both had wanted to draw out the sensation of being intimately joined again, they both knew that time was against them. Michael had started groaning in earnest as he found his release, shuddering against her, his fingers digging into her thighs. A few additional strokes as he'd chanted her name brought Fiona's orgasm to fruition and then she'd collapsed against his shoulder, her arms winding their way across his ribs and onto his trembling back._

Fiona drew a shaky breath as she found herself at the bottom of the porcelain tub without Michael's warmth pressed against her. The water was cooling, which told her she'd gotten caught in her day dream way too long and must have passed out. Shaking her head slowly, the petite Irishwoman tried to remember if she'd managed to wash up before or after she'd gone to dreamland. She thought a moment more about the awkward lunch she'd avoided with Michael's new handler. The "house sitter" had dressed quickly and slipped away before the CIA agent would've had the opportunity to examine the evidence and draw the obvious conclusions.

When she had come back, Michael had been gone. Bad tradecraft or not, this time he'd slipped a note in one of her suitcases which she didn't find until she had completely unpacked later on.

_Damn ya, Jesse, fer givin' me this fecking bug, anyway,_ she groused internally. But Fiona knew she was equally mad at herself for getting caught up in a reminiscence of her AWOL lover when she had work to do. For all she complained about Sam, he had been a good friend to her, especially in the wake of Michael's continued absences, which frustrated the ex-SEAL too. They both missed the bastard, though neither of them would admit it to the other openly.

And with that thought, the former IRA operative set about cleaning up again and mentally preparing for the job that was to come, because there were no sick days where she came from.

()()()()()()

Fiona staggered back into the loft, bruised, bloodied and battered. She stank of alcohol, gun powder and that unique scent all its own that came with being in close proximity to hurriedly made Molotov cocktails. She collapsed on the bed, her head and the rest of her body raging at her as she slid her H&K under her pillow and the Mac10 she had taken off one of their attackers under Michael's. It was no consolation to her whatsoever that Sam looked worst that she did.

It had been all she could do to get him out of her prized Hyundai, which now had a couple of bullet holes and a shot-out tail light, and on his way in the general direction of his own vehicle left in the commuter parking lot where they had met up. Neither one was up to caring for the other, so they just agreed to take care of themselves and headed out their separate ways.

_How the hell had it gone so wrong?_ She and Sam had worked dozens, no, hundreds of jobs together… Why had this one gone so sideways that they had ended up pinned behind the bar with booze and the glass that used to contain it raining down on them while bullets whizzed over their heads? The only thing saving their collective butts was her ability to turn her scarf and some handy liquor bottles into the make shift fire bombs that had set the bar alight and allowed them to escape, all while Sam was fussing at her about injuring the innocent onlookers.

Well, one thing she's learned young was there was no such thing as non-combatants in a bar fight. Once it started, if you didn't want to join in, you got the hell out. Cursing as she rubbed a hand against her forearm, she knew she had only gotten the worst of the glass out of her limbs.

Fiona tried to wrap her mind around the tactical analysis that would lead her to the point of failure, but she kept coming to a conclusion she didn't like. Yes, she and Sam had worked together, but it was because of Michael they'd done so. It was because of Michael they'd set aside their differences and it was usually because of Michael they'd had their roles to play.

Even when they were wrapped up in helping him chase his burn notice instead of helping other people, he was the conductor of the orchestra so to speak, he was the leader of their own little covert cell. Yes, she and Sam had worked together without him, but if it wasn't to work a part of an operation, it had been to either save him, search for him or both.

There hadn't been a lot of time, between his running off after they'd rescued Sam from clutches of Glenn Harrick or his jumping out of the helicopter, before he'd reappeared not much worse for the wear, but when he'd chased after Simon and disappeared from that FBI holding cell, she and Sam had kicked in every door they could think of and then they had gone back to work with mixed results. The job with the accountant and biker gang could have gone much like tonight had if Michael hadn't shown up when he did.

She and Sam had both worked well with Michael, but when it came to working with each other without Mr. Westen to mediate, or even just play off of, it changed their dynamic and things seemed to get off on the wrong foot until they figured out who was really in charge at any given time and sometimes things got ugly while they were working that out.

Though admittedly never as ugly as it had been tonight… She was just off her game, dammit!

Plus, besides missing Michael, the job had been set up for three and Fiona hadn't wanted to wait while Jesse and _she__,_ though she admitted it begrudgingly, got better. Their client was being terrorized by a biker gang that had been hired to ruin the business so it could be sold cheap to an unscrupulous developer. Nothing burned her ass more and the fact that it had been an Irish pub and the owner someone her family had had ties to in Belfast had put her in full IRA mode.

Later… much later… she decided, she was going to get up and find all the glass that was sticking her in unwanted places and check up on Sam, though if his bragging about his new lady friend was to be believed, then the ex-SEAL was going to be far better cared for than she was.

Later still, sometime the pre-dawn hours, that sixth sense of hers that had preserved her life more than once drug her up from the depths of sleep by her bra straps… yea, she had worn one for a change last night… and she was quickly pointing that Mac10 at whoever had gotten too close to the bed for his or her own good. Just as swiftly the weapon was snatched from her hand, much to her annoyance. But before Fiona could reach behind her head for her H&K, a familiar face swan into view and a well-known voice requested she cease her attempted assault.

"Thot betta be ya," she slurred. Even as she said it, she didn't believe it. _He'd gone somewhere._

"Jesus, Fiona, what the hell happened?"

"Jus' o' wee argument, thot's all."

"Argument?" She felt hands pressing all over her body, assessing injuries and causing her to gasp and jerk occasionally. "Looks like one helluva bar fight."

"Damned clever o' ya ta notice," she agreed, her accent getting thicker as the conversation went on. "And ya look ta me like a man off his leash. Whar's yar keeper, McBride?"

"We'll be meeting up later," Michael advised and there was something odd in his tone that she was way too everything to care about or deal with right at that moment. "I'm on a layover."

"Thot's lovely," Fiona assented and then let out a huge yawn. "Are ya gonna be around when I wake up or should I jus' kiss ya goodbye now?" She was going for a sarcastic dismissal, but it came out more like pleading and she hated that her heartache had slipped into her voice.

"Let's get you cleaned up before we worry about that," he suggested, slipping his arms under her legs and back, causing her to flinch again. "You're burning up, Fi. How long—"

"Watch whotcha doin', McBride," she grumbled and thumped his chest as he hefted her up off the bed, her head lolling to the side.

"Did ya drink any o' it or are ya wearing it all, luv?" he asked, the Irish lilt of long ago coming into his voice again. Michael took another huge whiff. "I'm thinkin' ya set fire ta tha lot o' it."

"It wa' the only way ta convince tham ta stop usin' us fer target practice," she retorted as he set her on her unsteady feet on the bathroom rug.

He stripped off his dress shirt and tie in one quick motions and then started the water. He eyed her critically for a moment and then reached out for her and the waistband of her jeans.

"Do ya think ya kin have yar way with me, McBride?"

He smiled in response. "Maybe later when you're feeling better," he answered softly.

Fiona grinned back at him and then her face fell. "Will ya be har when I'm feelin' better?"

She felt her eyes fluttering and the room faded to black before she heard his answer.

()()()()()()()()

This time Fiona awoke to the smell of a clean pillow case pressed into her nose, fresh shampoo on the hair that lay across her face and the aroma of freshly baked something. She had a vague memory of Michael helping her undress while batting her hands away from his fly repeatedly and then helping her into a bath. The woozy Irish woman remembered something about him telling her to get cleaned up while he changed the sheets and then him washing away all the booze, sawdust, blood, glass and smoky smell from her hair.

_It wa' all a dream. He wasn't har. He wouldnae have done thot, not while he wa' out on a mission. He wa' off with the CIA huntin' down tha bastids who burned ham. He'd nae__—_

The kettle whistling cut through her denial and she cracked open an eyelid, looking down her body which was now clad in one of Michael's white and blue pinstriped shirts and at the mauve bedding set she had purchased that was now on the bed. She rubbed her hands over face and found them both covered with clean dressings.

"Michael?" she called out tentatively.

"Your tea's ready," he responded and strolled out of the kitchen to set a steaming cup on the round table adjacent to the bed where a plate of fresh scones and the accompaniments sat.

"What's all this?" Fiona queried quizzedly as she pulled herself into a sitting position. That's when she realized it wasn't morning, it was very late in the afternoon, almost evening in fact.

"Breakfast for you, dinner for me?" he answered quietly, a subtle smile on his face.

"Have I really been asleep all this time?" she wondered aloud and then scooted slowly across the bed towards the food and drink and the one who had apparently purchased it. She knew better than to expect prepared given the amount of time and resources that required.

"A wee bit o' Gran's cold remedy might've helped here and there. You needed the rest."

It took a little time, but with his help she finally made it from the bed to the chair. There were dressings on her tan and toned legs as well.

"I made quite the mess," she laughed.

"What happened? Sam said—"

"Sam's lucky I didn't shoot him, too," she remarked. "Jus' a little job that went sideways."

"_A little_ sideways? Fiona, setting the bar on fire gives a whole new meaning to coming out hot."

"It was all Sam's fault, anyway. _I'm the one_ who knows their way around an Irish pub, after all. He wouldn't listen and o' course then Jesse had to go and get sick and give me the damned—"

"Wait a minute," he interrupted. "How did Jesse get _you _sick?"

Fiona couldn't decide whether to be embarrassed about how it had happened or be secretly pleased that the only real possibility of virus transmission short of Mr. Porter spitting in her drink seemed to be upsetting Michael. The redhead reached for her tea and took a generous slip.

"It was an accident," she mumbled at length.

"Seems like the whole operation was more of a snafu than an accident; you could've been killed," Michael admonished.

"Well, life goes on for the rest of us when you're gone, you know. We don't sit on a shelf in bubble wrap waiting for you to come back," Fiona retorted a little more harshly than she'd intended. She gave him a smile and reached out for his hand. "Thank you for helping me."

He rubbed his thumb across her bandaged knuckles. "You've done the same for me."

Ms Glenanne stared into those perfect blue eyes, so alight with adoration at the moment that she was reluctant to say what was on her mind and break the spell. But she knew if she didn't, the damned phone would ring sooner or later and she'd lose her chance.

"So, any idea where you're headed to or when you'll be back?"

The digit stroking over her knuckles stopped. "Fi…I…"

"Of course, you can't say." She pulled her hand from his grasp and reached over to select a scone for herself.

She kept her tone light and teasing. "How is it the CIA was perfectly fine with turning their back on _you_, having _us _doing _their_ job for them with no help _from them_ whatsoever?" She bit into the breakfast biscuit and found it good. "And now they're suddenly ready to _take_ _you_ _back_?" She ate another two bites of the hard, slightly sweet bread, waiting for his reply.

His smile turned apologetic. "I know, Fi. But at least they're listening _now_ and I can-."

"So, you're off to play global manhunt with Max then," she cut him off, waving the scone towards him with one hand and picking up her tea with the other. "Why does _he_ get to have all the fun?"

"Looks like you've had as much fun as you can handle," Michael countered dryly.

"It's not the same without you," she said so quietly he almost didn't hear her.

Mr. Westen stood up then and walked to her side of the table and pulled her up from the chair only to set her down again in his lap. She laid her head his shoulder as he wrapped his arms around her body and kissed the top of her head.

"Careful, ya'll get sick," Fiona cautioned.

"Had all my shots, including my flu shot, I think I'll be okay."

"And you have no idea when you'll be back and no way to let anyone know if _you_ _are_ okay."

"I know and I'm really sorry about that." He squeezed her tighter and pressed another kiss into her hair. "I'll text you when I can."

The Irish woman laid her hands over the top of his larger ones that sat folded on her lap.

"Tell me all this is going to be over someday soon, Michael." She paused to keep her voice from breaking. "One day I want us to be able to just go out or go dancing like a normal couple and not worry about who'll see us or what they'll do to us if they do."

"We go dancing all the time," he chuckled lightly, trying to change the mood. "It's called the horizontal bop."

"You're making that up and trying to change the subject," she accused, her sadness morphing quickly into pique.

"I'm not making it up, it's a real song and there's a real dance that goes with it." His smile turned seductive. "Would you like me to show you when you're up to it?"

She sat up in his lap and turned, grinding her buttocks into his groin. "I think you're the one that needs to be _up_ to it." Fiona gave him a couple quick punches in the bicep and immediately regretted it. He took the hand she'd reinjured and pressed it to his cheek.

"Stop that, okay?"

"Okay, what _can_ I do you?" Her grin was impish and infectious. As always, Fiona Glenanne had learned to seize whatever happiness she could out of life and push the rest to the rear.

"What do you _want_ to do to me?" His laugh was low and heated.

"Take yar clothes off, get on tha bed and find out," she challenged. "I'm bettin' I kin kiss ya proper without getting ya sick," and she smirked at him in such a way that went straight to the root of him, as she stroked his nipples through his T-shirt and he stiffened immediately.

"I think _I'm_ _up_ for _that_," Michael remarked. He lifted her off the sweat pants he'd changed into that morning and started to walk her towards the bed when she put out a foot and shoved him. He stumbled towards the bed and landed with a grunt. He stared at her blankly for a second.

"_I said_, take off yar clothes and get on tha bed," she grinned. He sat up and whipped the T-shirt over his head. She put a hand to the center of his chest and pushed him back onto the mattress and kneeled between his legs, tugging on his waistband until he lifted his hips off the bed and she pulled the fleece garment and his boxers free of his legs.

Fiona ran an appreciative eye and bandaged hands along his body, stroking over his pectorals and the hardened nubs, making him groan, and then sweeping over his tight abdomen and taut thighs, almost purring as she made the circuit and saw the effect it was having on his manhood.

"You're feeling better," he guessed with another smirk until she enveloped him with her warm wet mouth and his jaw went slack and his head fell back onto the mattress.

However long she moved her lips along the length of him, sucking on the sensitive flesh, she couldn't really say, but soon he was calling to her to stop and she did so with a ragged gasp.

"I'm not quite as well as I thought I was," Fiona murmured ruefully.

"Come here," he urged, turning and scooting up the bed, and pulled her to him. She collapsed with her head on his chest and her body sprawled across him.

"Lie on your side," Michael requested and then spooned in behind her as she curled up on the opposite side of the bed. "Are you comfortable?"

"Mmmm," was her only response and then he unbuttoned the shirt slowly, before reaching inside, palming her breasts softly, caressing her nipples gently. Her breathing hitched and then deepened. Fiona felt like she could drift off to sleep just like this, but she knew there was more.

"Relax…" he counseled as his right hand ran over her right thigh with a feather light touch before moving along the back of her leg and pulling her knee towards her stomach. "Just relax…" her lover repeated as he slid into her slick core ever so slowly.

As Michael became fully sheathed in her familiar embrace, they both let out a sigh of utter contentment. He paused a moment, and she knew he was savoring the feel of her wrapped around him intimately because she certainly was, before he began to move against her with a controlled measured cadence.

Normally, this languid pace would soon have driven her mad with want, but this time it was exactly what she needed. Their breathing synchronized with the rhythm of his movements. The hand that was resting against her stomach slipped lower, brushing against her womanhood with a delicate but determined touch. Her heart began to race, the sea of pleasure she'd been floating on turned to a tidal wave and her senses went into overload as her orgasm took her.

When she came back to herself, Michael was holding her tight, his muscles twitching against her fluid form, gasping her name as he found his blissful release. She was feeling such a serenity that she would have never expected given the circumstances.

But as she drifted off to sleep in the warmth and nearness of his body against hers, she decided that as of right now, tomorrow could take care of itself.


	10. Hot Spot

_**A/N:**__This story takes place at the end of Hot Spot (2.11), the night before Carla shows up in the loft and can be read as a prequel to __**the next chapter of **_**Puppies, Kittens & Gun Toting Babies**_, which re-boots the 3.01 premiere _(Enemy of My Enemy)_ that __**will be **__**posted tomorrow**__ (Tuesday)__.__ Our apologies for the delay, but sometimes _ Real Life_ just refuses to get out of the way!_

_There will be a __**new chapter of**__**True Believer**__, our collaboration with our dear friend, Amanda Hawthorn that follows the events of the 7.13 finale _Reckoning,_ which will be __**posted on Thursday**__._

_As always, love to the PCC, Amanda Hawthorn, Purdy's Pal and Daisy Day and thank you to Amanda for the quick BETA. Welcome back to our own DKougar & hearty shout out to all the wonderful women of Burner Fame on FB+ Twitter and don't forget BNClub will be watching S1E2 Identity at 9 PM EDT 9/26!_

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_How many times did he tell her they couldn't be together, in word and in deed?_

And now they could never be together….

_How many times had he watched her and wanted her and told himself he couldn't have her? _

But now he could never have her again.

"_You look beautiful, Fi…" he'd__ told her as they'd been standing at Seymour's door. Why did he say that?_

But now he would never get the chance to tell her that again.

And the rain pours down… it soaks the ground and it soaks his clothes… and he doesn't care.

_You don't care about an asset. You don't miss the scent of an asset when she leaves the room. _

He cared now, he missed her now, now that it was too late to do anything other than perish inside from the burning regret like Fiona had perished in that burning building_._

_NO! She wasn't dead… he wouldn't accept it… one more rally point to check__…__ he couldn't think like that._

His thoughts refuse to obey and the question comes anyway.

_How could anyone have survived that inferno? _

The sights and sounds of the house fire fill his mind again as he searches for an answer to the puzzle.

"_Fi, I'm at the address you gave me. Call me back if you get this." He had put the phone away and walked towards the cadre of firemen and officials blockading the raging conflagration behind them._

"_Hey, Hey, Hey, you can't be here__,__" __they tell him._

"_Was anyone in there? Did you find anyone in there?__"_

"_We don't know yet. We haven't been able to confirm. It's too hot__," the man tells him._

_I know all about hot, he'd thought at the time, remembering the fire-bombing in Belfast that had almost killed him at a night club about a decade or so ago. "Is there a woman in there?__"_

"_All we know was someone was seen going in. We don't know if they came out."_

_That had not been what he had wanted to hear. He'd have to find out for himself apparently._

"_I just need to know if someone is in there. But you didn't see a woman come out? Did anyone see anything? Is there anyone in there? She's- She's__…"__ Words tumbled one on top of the other as he fought them to get through and search for himself, but there were too many of them and the fire truly too hot__._

_The physical struggle as they had pushed him back away from Poole's house was far less intense than the mental struggle to put the concept of Fiona into words, to articulate to them her importance to him__._

"_Move back, that's enough. Move it back. Move it back__...__We're clearing this whole street__.__" They had dismissed him and his concerns.__ They had a fire to worry about… but he__'d__ something more imperative__…_

"_It's Fi. Leave a message…"_

"_Fi, Fi, pick up the phone. Call me if you get this. I need to know where you are." He was desperate._

He pulls the black muscle car up to the last rally point, but there is no one there. He rolls down the window and stares towards the clump of sea grapes and palms that surround the outdoor pavilion and restrooms on the edge of the beach and still finds no one. The windblown rain and lightning have run everyone off and he can see the padlocks on the doors, but he still looks on as moisture pelts his face.

He drives away. It's getting dark now. He's been looking since evening at all the places they said they'd meet if there was trouble, because she's not home and she's not answering her phone and Sam doesn't know where she is and Madeline hasn't heard from her and she wasn't at the loft where he'd gone first.

So he checks them all again, just in case, just in case he missed her at one of them and finds nothing.

_What are you saying, Fi?_

_That I'll always care about you... Michael... and I'll still help you with your thing and you'll still help me with mine, but we can't be together. _

_I know. I said that for a long time._

_Yes, you have._

At the time, she'd given him just what he'd thought he wanted: a promise of her assistance, a pledge of her tactical support, an opportunity to keep her presence in his life without the messy _relationship_ issue.

_Now the words burn in his brain, in his belly, like the blaze that had taken her life__…_

He doesn't bother to argue back. He doesn't know anymore how he got to the bottom of the loft stairs, only that the climb is long, longer than he's ever remembered, when suddenly he's at the top and can't understand a simple mechanism like a key in a lock… _why use a key when you can pick the door lock?_

_Aren't you more comfortable breaking in?_

_What is your problem with me having a key, Michael?_

He thinks about that as he leans heavily on the door as he locks it, regret and sorrow weighing him down far more heavily than the water that has saturated his clothes does.

He hears something that doesn't make sense.

"There you are. You've _got _to get a landline in here."

He turns toward the sound and tries to process the sight that comes with it.

"Poole rigged his place to burst into flames. No surprise… but I let my curiosity get away with me."

The distance between the front door and the apparition of Fiona Glenanne is suddenly too far, but he can't seem to move any faster; worried she might vanish if he does…

"I waited for burnout in one of the windows and now I need a new cell phone," she tells him, showing a melted hunk of meaningless plastic to him and that's when it hits him. He can smell the burnt plastic.

_It's real!_

He's had hallucinations in his lifetime, induced by drugs in training, by circumstances in the field, and they have looked real, sounded real, even felt real for pity's sakes… but they have _never_ smelt real.

_She's real!_

He stands before her, dripping and blinking, unable to move, unable to speak as she stares up at him.

"Michael, you didn't think that..."

Slowly, he raises his right hand and brushes it across her cheek as the moisture pools in his eyes, liquid that has nothing to do with the rain water that's trickling down from his hair and onto his face.

His other hand joins the first, momentarily cupping her cheek and then sliding down the slender column of her throat until both rest on her shoulders and he doesn't know if he can hold back what he's feeling any longer, doesn't know what else to do with turmoil of emotion that is coursing through him.

He leans forward, resting his forehead against hers until their noses touch, as tiny droplets that could almost be tears start to drip on her, and then it's too much and he does the only thing he knows to do.

He closes his eyes and he kisses her, feeling the pulse beat at her throat through his fingers resting there. After a beat, he pulls back, staring at the vision before him, feeling her warmth start to penetrate his large hands, seeping into his frozen heart. Relief so profound it's painful surges through his being.

Then he kisses her again, a deep, demanding kiss as he wraps his arms around her and crushes her to his body and feels her arms snake around his back where they belong, feels one of her legs wrap around his calf, sealing them together.

He presses into her, releasing and capturing her mouth again and again as he begins to rock slowly side to side, his fingers digging into her flesh to assure himself that she is really there, her body heat clashing with the cold, damp, storm soaked material of his T-shirt and jeans.

How long he kisses her, he doesn't know…. minutes… hours… she's here… she's alive… she's in his arms.

Sometime later, as his lips had left her face and are pressing on her neck and nuzzling her hair, she says, "Ya need ta get outta them wet clothes…"

And it occurs to him that now _her_ sweater and jeans are damp, too, and he isn't sure exactly how it happened, but now he's holding her cradled against his chest and carrying her towards the bathroom.

He puts her down, but he can't let her go. Michael's emotional palate includes a lot of dark colors, anger, rage, betrayal, hurt, sadness and a few lighter ones, satisfaction at a job well done, curiosity to find the next piece of the puzzle, loyalty to his cause, country and co-workers. There are even some colors in there for friendship, for gratitude, for need…Fiona's all those colors and something more…

And it's the something that he can't acknowledge even to himself, let alone her, that something that has him shuddering and unwilling to let her go. So she takes things into her own hands once again, as her nimble fingers slide down his back and grab the hem of his sodden grey T-shirt and she pulls it over his head and lays the dripping garment over the edge of the bath tub.

He stands there, seemingly in a daze, watching as Fiona leans over and turns on the taps, trying to coax some warm water out of the spigot. Then he leans forward, rolling the edge of her shirt upwards, kissing his way up her spine as he exposes each inch of her back. His palms glide along her sides and then over her breasts, his cold hands instantly causing her nipples to harden as they pass over.

As her damp stripped top finds its way onto the floor, the Irish woman straights and then bends back, pressing into him while his mouth ravages her neck and his hands caress her small, firm breasts. A low moan escapes her lips. She extends her arms, reaching behind to run her nails through his short, wet hair and arching into his touch. It's been _so_ long since they have been together like this…

Even though she was the one who'd told him they couldn't be together, she apparently doesn't have the heart to deny him this and her body doesn't seem to want to anyway. There are no objections when his hands slide lower across her stomach and undo the waistband of her jeans before pushing them off of her legs altogether. As she steps out of the damp denim and turns around, he falls to his knees, his hands stroking over the backs of her thighs and her backside as he presses his cheek into her stomach.

They're both trembling now, both with desire and some other as of yet unnamed emotion, and he squeezes her tight one more time before kissing her properly. She's completely bare down there and he doesn't know why, he's not been privileged to see this part of her lately, and he doesn't let the thought of who else might have seen this trouble him as his tongue probes those sweet folds.

His skillful sucking and licking soon has her legs shaking and her head thrown back as she gasps his name and her fingers latch forcefully onto his rain darkened hair while she rides a wave of orgasmic bliss that surprises her with its strength. He holds her close, his own fingers digging into that taut ass he's been watching through those short skirts and close-fitting pants all these weeks.

He slows rises and kisses his way back up her shaking frame, pausing to take first her right breast and then her left into to his mouth, his tongue swirling over the rock hard nipples as he suckles the mounds of soft pliant flesh and causes her to groan loud, almost a bittersweet sound to his ears; he's missed hearing it and missed being the one to cause her to make that noise, even though he'll never admit it.

"Tha water's gonna get cold," she breathes heavily and reaches for the fly of his storm soaked jeans. He releases her reluctantly and sits down slowly on the toilet seat to try to untangle his shoes from his pants legs. Now she returns the favor, kneeling in front of him and helping him to disrobe. She slides between his knees and takes his throbbing manhood into her warm, wet mouth and he can't help the little cry… yes, cry… of pleasure that escapes from him. There's only one thing sweeter than this…

"Shower, please…" he begs, almost through clenched teeth, the digits woven through her long auburn mane tightening as he tries to hold himself back.

There's a glint of the old mischief in her eye as she replies, "Whatever ya say, McBride…" and none of the sadness that marked their conversation earlier that day about where his Irish alter ego had gone.

As the semi warm water cascades around them, they kiss and cuddle under the spray for just a moment. Then he feels the weight on his heart begin to lift as he can feel the sorrow wash away along with the soap as their hands glide over each other's bodies until he's so hard it hurts. It's not going to end the way either of them want it too if they don't get down to business soon.

So he grabs her wrists and stills her movements, tugging and pulling until she's sitting astride him, the spray thoroughly wetting her long, reddish brown locks and sending tiny beads of water into his face.

With a deeply satisfied mutual moan, she slowly impales herself on his eager length, stopping as he grabs her roughly by the back of the head and pulls her in for a deep, almost bruising kiss. His tongue invades her mouth as his member invades her body and she accepts both willingly.

Their kisses follow the rhythm set by their lower limbs as they move against one another, the sweet friction building, and he never wants to leave the tiny bathroom or the confines of this old porcelain tub, never wants to let her go, never wants to stop…

He is overcome by a rush of bliss as his orgasm takes him abruptly and completely unawares. He comes back to his senses in time to open his eyes and see her face a mask of ecstasy, those beautiful eyes squeezed tightly shut, those beautiful lips parted and forming a perfect "O" as she's lost in that place of erotic pleasure where he was just a moment ago and she rides him with now quivering limbs.

And he smiles gently as she collapses against his shoulder, enfolding her in a snug embrace once again, deciding that he has found a new favorite reminiscence to put in the precious box in his head that contains all of his special memories of Fiona Glenanne.


	11. Friends and Family

_**A/N**__ – This little M-rated missing moment starts at the end of 3.01 __**Family and Friends**__ after Michael sees his old buddy Harlan off on his trip to Venezuela and before they all meet up at Madeline's to discuss what happened over a beer. Another chapter based on 3.07 __**Shot in the Dark**__ from Fiona's POV and a new __Three Sides to Every Story__ based on __**Long Way Back**__ and __**A Dark Road**__ should be on the boards soon._

_Next Thursday, 06/12/14, should have been Season 8 (*ugly crying ensures*). But since we haven't gotten any love from Matt Nix or our Sam and Jesse spinoff, __**Jedi's Pal**__ will be presenting __Life with Larry__ every Thursday at the conclusion of #burnnoticeclub, the untold tales of our fav undead spy (well most of us anyway… apologizes to Phillie are in order for the subject matter). Much love and many thanks to all the __**#Burners**__ out there on Faceback, Twitter and Fan Fiction for keeping __**Burn Notice**__ alive and rocking it!_

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Fiona had been waiting for him when he'd returned to the loft early that morning. She'd been digging in the ancient refrigerator for a little yogurt for breakfast when he'd pushed the heavy metal door open. With an irritated huff which had been meant to cover her concern, she'd thanked him that she and Sam hadn't had to be out ALL night looking for him. He'd already called the pair to let them know he was alive after Harlan had taken his little boat ride. As to the matter of how 'well' he was, that had been up for debate. He hadn't said anything other than he would catch up with them later at his mother's house.

There had been an unspoken plea to keep Madeline at bay in his conversation with Sam, who'd acknowledged it discreetly at the end. Michael had been fairly certain that he'd find Fiona at the loft when he got there, so he hadn't been surprised when he'd spotted her car parked next to the stairs.

The redhead let out a gasp when she'd gotten a good look at what the proverbial cat had drug in. Michael's wound had decorated the make shift bandage on his wrist in plenty of disturbingly red hues.

"Michael, what happened?"

She wasted no time digging out the first aid kit out from under the work bench after she'd rushed to his side. A beat later, Fiona was wrinkling her nose at the rank smell of diesel and dirty water permeating his hair and clothing as he slowly unwound the ruined cloth covering the cuts on his wrist.

"Did you go swimming in a sewer again?"

"More like that canal in Amsterdam," the ex-spy sighed, memories of the job they'd worked together in the Dutch capital and how it had ended skirting around the edges of his awareness.

"Where's Harlan?"

His look must have said it all, because she dropped the questioning immediately and had instead concentrated on the examining the series of shallow cuts with a practiced eye.

"It shouldn't need stitches, but you need to get it disinfected and dressed up as soon as possible."

He let her take him by the hand and lead him to the tiny bathroom at the back of the loft. The Irishwoman pressed him down onto to the toilet seat to remove his slick shoes and smelly socks. Screwing up her face with a look of mild revulsion, Fiona then rinsed her hands off under the taps, adjusting them until she coaxed some really hot water out of the aging plumbing system.

Mr. Westen hadn't expressed his surprise at her filling the tub. Instead, the vision of another bath from a bygone era had been dancing in his head. _At least she hadn't made him disrobe in the street this time._

"You better hurry. You know it won't last,"the tiny former terrorist advised, gathering up the rest of his ruined clothes and impatiently waiting for him to doff his boxers. "I'm gonna bag this mess up."

"Don't throw away—"

But only the wind had remained when he'd gone to plead for mercy for his favorite pair of dress shoes.

Michael gingerly stepped into the steaming water, closing his eyes and sinking into the tub of hot liquid, letting the warmth permeate his abraded joints and muscles while holding his injured arm out of the heated fluid. Mr. Westen dipped his head back and saturated his dark hair when the petite woman padded silently back into the miniscule restroom carrying the medical kit. As he reached for the shampoo, she snatched it out of his good hand and knelt down beside the old porcelain bath.

"Let me help you with that," Ms. Glenanne requested, pouring some of the bottle's contents on him.

"Guess I should be grateful you're just washing my hair and not cutting it this time."

He gave her a weary smile and then closed his eyes, giving into her ministrations, concentrating on the feeling of her nails gliding over his scalp as she worked the lather through his hair removing the sludge and the chemicals, and refusing to think about what he'd been forced to do to Harlan to save himself.

"Yer lucky thot wrist dinnae need stitchin' or you'd be payin' fer thot remark, Michael Westen."

A gentle touch encircled his wrist and held his left arm straight up and then a surprisingly strong shove pushed his whole head under the water. Michael surfaced, sputtering and shaking out his mop as well as splashing his caregiver cum tormentor in the process.

_I really should have seen that one coming,_ the former covert operative thought wryly.

"Ack, ya wet me shirt," the redhead grumbled without any real venom in her tone.

"Well, you started this," he quite reasonably pointed out, another tired grin forming on his lips.

"Be still, ya great crybaby," she countered, reaching for the wash cloth and the soap.

"I can manage this, really," Michael announced and then took the cleaning implements back.

The ex-spy thought for a fleeting second about commenting on her uncharacteristic empathy before deciding that he hadn't heart or the stomach for verbal sparring with her at that particular moment.

"Have it your way." Fiona got to her feet with a shrug. "I'll get you some clean clothes while I'mchanging mine. You're damn lucky I have a few spare outfits stashed about or you'd be in real trouble."

The ex-spy let out a long, deep exhalation of breath when the door had closed behind her and he began the task of cleaning up one handed. Even with scorching remembrances of what had followed during his only night using the massive en suite of Liam Glenanne's home back in Belfast obviously dancing in both their heads, Michael wasn't prepared to go where it had been heading. But Fiona's often atypical understanding nature had held out. When he entered the main room, the auburn haired temptress had changed into a white sundress and laid out his green polo and jeans. She bandaged his wrist and helped him dress without any further hints of their fiery past relationship returning to the forefront aside from a quick buss to the cheek. They managed to get to his mom's within a couple of hours of his arrival.

There was a part of him of that had wanted to put off telling his best buddy what had happened. It wouldn't be pleasant explaining that their former friend had become a killer for hire. Although he and Harlan hadn't been _that_ close, Van Holt had been the other man besides Sam who had rescued him from that pit up in the Caucus Mountains, though they hadn't known each other at that time. Still, they had _worked together_, spy and SEAL, him the smart one and Harlan the 'pretty one' as the man had said.

"_Just like old times, right Mike?"_

"_Yeah, JUST like old times."_

Sometimes he had wondered how Harlan had made it onto the Teams at all. The man was all brawn and no brain… well, to be fair, Harlan had a brain, he just didn't seem to use it often as compared to his muscles. On the other hand, the former SEAL had managed to_ deceive_ _him_. He'd known _something _was up when the _old buddy_ he'd worked various extractions with for almost a year, had shown up to bail _him _out of jail instead of going to Sam directly with _his little problem_. He just hadn't known _what_ was up.

The conversation gathered around the dining room table at his mother's house, relating what the other former SEAL had done and what had become of Harlan Van Holt, had been so uncomfortable that he'd had his own aberrant moment. His favorite ex-SEAL was usually the only one to be beer swilling before lunch and yet when Madeline had called out for the drink orders, both he and Fiona had joined Mr. Axe.

"Mike, this is not good. You've been swimming away from bad guys alittle too often these days."

"I know."

_Sometimes Sam had a real gift for stating the painfully obvious…._

"Look, I'm not saying you're not popular, but you're a guy who's had, uh, a lot of disagreements over the years. I mean, if you can't even trust your buddies…"

_His new reality… in a nutshell… _and it scared the hell outta him to let that thought penetrate.

"It's nothing we can't handle."

Former covert operative wasn't been sure whether to grin or cringe at Fiona's declaration of protection and loyalty, blithely ignoring the realities of his situation that he knew to be true better than anyone.

"Michael, you really need stitches."

Somehow he managed to keep himself from groaning out loud as his mother plopped more medical supplies down on the surface in front of him. That was when he noticed the crimson tinge spreading upon the white material wrapped around his left wrist.

"I'm fine. The cuts are shallow. I know. I made them."

"Fine… You know, I never liked that Harlan. Do you remember, Michael? I told you—

"You told me I was going to get him killed."

_Why was it that his mother always insisted on trying to make him accountable for the irresponsible people around him? Even the ones she'd only met days before? Was 'brother's keeper' plastered on his forehead? His train wreck of a brother was one thing, but someone with Special Forces training? Then he remembered just how draining her selective memory and revisionist views of the past could be._

"No, I—you know, you misunderstood. That's not what I meant. It doesn't matter! The point is..." And Madeline waved her cigarette in a circle at them, _perhaps to reinforce the bond by means of nicotine laden smoke?_ "You three… need to stick together."

_Sound advice, except merely the three of them sticking together was not going to solve his problem._

In the end, however, Michael mercifully had been able to leave Sam to manage his mom and depart with Fiona. He was always grateful whenever the older man could run interference for him with Mama Westen. The former Ranger ranked saving his sanity while exiled in Miami well above all the times Commander Axe had actually saved his ass during operations on battlefields around the world.

"We're not going back to the loft, are we?" he observed as she pointed the Saab in the completely opposite direction of the living space above the nightclub that he called home.

"Nope," the redhead agreed. "So many people just always dropping your place unannounced and you haven't seen my new place yet." She stole a glance at him over the top of her sunglasses. "I thought now would be a good time for a tour. It'll be the perfect place for you to get some rest."

Michael wisely chose not to comment on who number one on the list of making themselves at home in his place was. Instead he concentrated on watching the route and memorizing it while Ms. Glenanne had put the little black sports car through its paces and put them at her new abode in record time.

He knew she had moved from her rental on the Intracoastal sometime during their abortive attempt to lead separate lives and him getting out from under the people who had burned him, but not where.

"Nice security," he commented as they passed through the outer gate and into the garden area at the front of the condominium. "I'm sure the home owners' association wouldn't approve if they knew."

Fiona chuckled lightly, apparently enjoying the compliment and his company. "You should see what's buried in with the hibiscus."

_As he stared around the space, the contrast with his own living quarters with stark… or rather his living quarters were stark by comparison. If one thing could be said for the Irishwoman, she knew how to make herself at home… whether it was a rundown flat in Dublin or a well-appointed condo in upscale Miami._

He followed her into the kitchen, observing the dark wood and glass décor, all sharp angles and gleaming surfaces, guessing where all the guns were hidden and which decorative items contained the prepared blocks of C-4. The Irishwoman sat two containers of Brenner's along with two spoons on the table adjacent to the breakfast bar. He gave her a drowsy smile at the choice of food and flavors.

"I prefer to steal yours, of course," she remarked with a slight grin of her own. "But it's easier to have some of me own on hand rather than raid your fridge in the middle of the night if I get a craving after midnight. I wouldnae want ya ta try ta shoot me by mistake."

"Didn't you tell me once that if I shot you it wouldn't be by mistake?"

"Well, sometimes things change, I guess," Fiona replied. She ate a few more bites and then looked deeply into his eyes, her blue green ones an odd mixture of emotions that needed a response from him.

But then Michael let out a huge yawn he hadn't anticipated. Stomach full now and danger passed at the moment, he had burned through the adrenaline and the lack of sleep the past 30 hours or so took over.

"Come on, let me show you the bedroom. I think you need a nap."

She leaned over to pick up the trash and silverware off the table and was moving to give him a peck on the cheek from her expression. The ex-spy read her intentions and turned his face, meeting her lips with his, placing a gentle hand to the back of her head, drawing her fully into the kiss as he stood up.

Fiona wrapped her limbs around his waist and he laid his injured arm loosely across her back. Several moments of soft kissing gave way to the parting of teeth as their tongues came together in a familiar ritual of touch and taste. He kept his hand in her hair, threading his fingers through the silken auburn tresses and massaging her neck and shoulder as they broke apart.

"Thank you, Fi… for everything," the dark haired man whispered, his face so close to hers he could smell the scent of blueberries on her breath as well as the taste of on his tongue.

"As I said, it's always a treat to save you, Michael," she repeated part of their earlier conversation. "Though it'd be a wee bit easier to do if—"

He stolen her words away with another kiss and then the enormous yawn which had escaped that time had only been partially exaggerated. The petite woman led him out the kitchen and into her boudoir.

As she had been enumerating the features, benefits and origins of various items in and around the room, Michael had slipped off his flip flops and straight headed for the rectangular white object with the metal headboard at the center and pulled the white gauzy curtains out of his way and tried to lie down. He almost made it down onto the bed before she snatched the continental quilt out from under him.

"One does not sit on the duvet! It's Hungarian goose down!" she admonished as if it should have been obvious. But he didn't remarked on all the times he'd found her sitting on the comforter on _his _bed as he laid himself down still dressed on the ridiculous comfy mattress that had cost a small fortune.

She pulled a light sheet over his prone form and leaned over, reaching out to touch either his cheek of his shoulder, it didn't mattered which. Michael took her hand into his, squeezing her fingers lightly and pleading with his beat blue eyes. So, Fiona slipped under the covers in her clothes too and had lain down beside him. He spooned up against her, just as he had that night she'd come over at 3 AM, watching over him quoting Proverbs 27:17 to Lesher. But he had been talking to her the whole time.

And then he'd lain there, trying not to think, trying not to dream, waiting for the mind numbing exhaustion to claim him while he had tried focus on nothing but the warmth and the weight of her pressed against him, trying without success to shut out the feelings that threatened to overcome him.

Falling from the helicopter, that never ending moment between the solidity of metal under his feet and the oh-so-familiar whirr of the metallic blades that kept the craft aloft and hitting the water, the yielding and yet unyielding surface of the water, the pain he knew would hit when he broke the surface of the ocean with his body, that was nowhere near as frightening as this. He had jumped out of helicopters into unforgiving places, over grown dense jungles, scorched deserts, jagged mountain sides, and he had free fallen into deep water before. The Rangers had trained him and his three years of service to his country had equipped him for what was admittedly a bit more than he had done recently. But he had been prepared for the feelings that come with jumping from out of a secure vehicle into the open air.

_There is a moment, that moment they tell you about in training, but it never matches the reality of when you actually hit the water and you're not sure which way is up. Letting that panic take over is a good way to make sure you drown. Forcing yourself to take the time to reorient underwater is a challenge. But like most challenges in life, fighting that panic is a necessary part of surviving and succeeding._

Kind of disturbing too was thinking about all the things which were potentially between him and the shoreline so far off in the distance that could hurt him, maim him or just eat him for lunch. The swim had been beyond grueling and that had been scary too. He had been utterly exhausted and had ingested more sea water than would probably be considered healthy when he'd washed up on the beach, involuntarily body surfing onto the sand as part of the last portion of that five mile workout.

Going down on his knees in the middle of street, the rallied troops of Miami Metro Dade law enforcement pointing weapons of various calibers at him, forcing himself to be perfectly still and not to react, to let himself be captured while hoping that no one had gotten an itchy trigger finger from too much sugar and caffeine at the donut shop that morning had been a challenge, but not unmanageable.

Throwing himself through the window into the canal below, bursting into the open air with thousands of tiny and not so tiny shards of glass flying everywhere around him had been worrisome, hoping that he had gotten the angle right and there was filthy oily muddy canal water waiting for his limbs to plunge into instead of an unforgiving dock. _The things that you wish for sometimes in this business…. _The brackish liquid containing God only knows what else burned all the little and not so little cuts all over.

And as he had sat there in the pre-dawn dark in the window he'd crashed through earlier, holding the blood stained cotton torn from the hem of his dress shirt tightly around his wrist, waiting for the Venezuelans to arrive and collect the corpse of Rufino Cortez and a mercenary who would have betrayed a friend for blood money, that man's words' had come back to haunt him in that moment.

_Now you're just a burned spy tossed out into the cold, huh? Might as well tattoo a bull's eye on your forehead. _

Everything that he had gone through since he'd pulled the trigger, since he'd looked into Victor's bright desperate eyes, begging for release until they were dead eyes before he'd closed them, it had settled in the center of his chest and squeezed his heart tight until he wasn't sure he could draw another breath.

_When you find yourself out in the cold, all you can do is put your head down and try to survive._

The room was dark now, but the disorientation of the change of light and the unfamiliarity of his surroundings had nothing to do with the tremors running through his body. Shaking his head, trying to clear the haze of interrupted sleep from his muddled mind, he reached his good hand out and encountered nothing but empty space and cold sheets where he had expected to find Fiona Glenanne.

"Fi?" he called out. "Fiona?"

Before he could do more than raise himself up on his elbow, wincing as he was forcibly reminded of what had happened to his wrist, the woman in question threw open the adjacent bathroom door and temporarily blinded Mr. Westen with the light emanating from behind the lithe figure in the entryway.

The towel wound around her hair and the robe encasing her petite form answered the question of where she had been since he'd obviously fallen into an uneasy sleep. The mattress dipped as the redhead perched on the edge and blocked the illumination, shading his troubled face.

"I didn't mean to—"

Whatever she had intended to say was lost as the ex-spy sat up and pulled her damp form into a tight embrace, kissing her with equal parts passion and desperation. Her hands traveled along his arms and then his taut back, attempting to massage away the tension. He slowly relaxed into his lover as the kiss broke and was renewed again, deepening this time as she opened her mouth to him on a sigh.

Michael reached up, tugging on the terry cloth that hid her hair until the Irishwoman tossed her head to the side, causing the dripping auburn tresses to tumble free and the damp article to hit the carpet with a muffled thud. He released his hold on her shoulders and threaded his fingers through the wet tangles, holding in her place as his lips left hers and traveled to across her flushed cheek and down her neck, nipping and sucking at the sweet spot where her neck and shoulder met.

"Miiiccchhaelllll…." His name became several syllables long as one hand remained firmly in possession of the right side of her throat while the injured one slipped between them and pulled loose the tie that had been holding the short dressing gown closed while his tongue and teeth continued to caress from her ears to collarbone. As the silk parted, his fingers ghosted over her exposed skin, sending shivers through out her body, especially when those strong digits curved around the swell of her breast and his thumb stroked over the center of pliant flesh. Fiona let out a throaty moan as his touch grew more insistent.

The tape on his wrist felt strange across her rib cage as his calloused palm continued to move from one small perfect mound to the other. Then both his hands moved to cradle her jawline as his face rose from her clavicle until he was staring directly into her eyes, bright with a mixture of lust and adoration.

"I need you, Fi," Michel declared, his large paws sliding down her shoulders and then her arms, taking the garment with them, discarding it behind her on the mattress. He scooted over on the double bed, making room for her to lie on her back, his grip on her biceps pulling on Fiona, encouraging that action.

When the redhead was laid out naked before him, a symphony in soft skin and supple limbs shivering in anticipation, he turned on his side next to her still fully clothed, preparing to play along each sensitive spot that he knew oh so well. Like the first night he had made love to her in that ruined and abandoned farmhouse on the road to Derry which had been her childhood home, Michael fully intended to give every part of her the worship it was due. The light from the bathroom was more direct than the light from that ancient stone fireplace of that winter's night long ago, but it still made shadows upon her.

As his hands glided over her frame, leaving goose bumps in their wake, the Irishwoman took hold of his polo shirt, preparing to rend it open. He grasped her wrists and stopped her with a slight shake of his head. Ms. Glenanne stared back, a question furrowing her brow, and he smiled broadly in response.

He loved the feel of her body against his own, no barriers between them, heated flesh upon heated flesh; but sometimes for no reason he could adequately explain to himself the contrast in their relative states of undress was a huge turn on and _this_ _was one of those times_.

So, his hands and tongue, fingers and lips and sometimes teeth too moved over the woman he cherished, her moans and gasps spurring him on, her own hands carding through his hair, scratching over his scalp and tugging on his garments until finally, his uninjured arm draped across her stomach as his fingers wove their magic between her splayed legs, his teeth and tongue moving from one heaving breast to the other until she was gasping his name again and bucking upwards from the overload.

He covered her with his body then, his hard erection pressing into her stomach and straining against the denim that held it in place. Fiona could stand it no more. She pulled the green apparel out of her way and over his head, scratching his sides with her nails as it was removed from her sight and flung away.

Her questing nimble fingers soon had the hard metal button removed from its place and his manhood freed from his fly. Using her hands and then her feet, the jeans and boxers were pushed down and away until there was nothing between them, nothing stopping him from sliding into the one place he wanted to be more than anything. Michael let slip a guttural groan as she sheathed him fully in her warm moist center. His lover wrapped her lower limbs over his, rubbing her in-steps along the backs of his taut thighs before hooking her heels behind his buttocks and letting him know without a word what was required and the dark haired man happily complied.

He was moving, long, deep satisfying strokes that brought them closer to heaven with each movement. Their eyes locked and she ran her tongue over her lips before parting, her breath now coming in short pants. Michael couldn't resist and he stole the sound as she moaned into his mouth, kissing her hard.

Fiona was trembling as her second orgasm took her over. She threw her head back against the pillows, her jaw going slack. Watching her lost in a sea of bliss had him driving harder, faster until the white out of pleasure he was seeking exploded and sang across every nerve ending in his own quaking frame.

Michael almost collapsed on top of her, their sweat slicked skin still sliding together as he held some of his weight back on his elbows and slowly stilled his movements. His head was spinning from the ecstasy, the exertion and the early blood loss. The sound of their mutual heavy breathing was the only noise in that quiet place of peace they had carved out for themselves. Lying entangled still on the soft mattress, they kissed softly… once… twice… thrice… before Michael withdrew and rolled on his back, taking her with him, tucking the Irishwoman into his side. Contentment conspired with exhaustion and he slept.

When he awoke the next morning to her soft breath whispering across his chest under a thick white quilt in cooled air, he thought for the merest of moments that he was back in their little Irish apartment. Michael turned his head to press a light kiss to her forehead, knowing better than to startle her awake.

But the bed was too comfortable, the duvet too well made and the cell phone trilling in the night stand was the ring tone that signaled Sam Axe wanted a word with him. As much as he might want to spend the day in bed with the woman in his arms, that part of their lives was over and a new reality had come.

_As a spy working for a government, you're protected. You may work solo, but you have agreements with other spy agencies. Even when you're surrounded by your enemies, that protects you. When your entire career consists of making enemies, there's no greater danger than being totally cut off alone. _

He wasn't totally alone in the literal sense. The warmth that surrounded him and the voice on the phone proved that. But he was exposed. The protection of the people he had served and those who burned him had been lifted and there was _nothing_ Michael Westen hated more than being vulnerable.

"Hey, Mikey, sorry if I woke you up." Sam's laughter was nervous. "Just thought I'd swing by the loft and pick you up in a couple of hours, you know? Go do this thing with Marta in case you needed back-up?"

"Sure, Sam, see you later." Michael put the cell back down and kissed the end of her upturned nose.

"I guess this means no breakfast in bed…" He gave an apologetic smile for the pout forming on her lips. "Do me a favor, Michael? I'm glad you're still alive. So could you try a little harder to keep it that way?"

"I promise to do my best, Fi," he agreed, kissing her forehead and squeezing her tight for a moment.

_Because, at the end of the day when you're a burnt spy out in the cold, that's all you really can do._


	12. Wanted Man

_**A/N**__ – This M-rated missing moment takes place at the start of Episode 1.09 and answers a question from __**Wanted Man**__ that's always bugged me: how did Fiona manage to get Michael to put the dossier down and go to the beach of all places? As always, much love and many thanks to all the #Burners out there for all their support. I appreciate every review for my stories as well as for my joint efforts under the name Jedi's Pal with the amazing Purdy's Pal. And a very special birthday shout out to DKougar. Enjoy!_

**()()()()()()()()()()**

Michael Westen had screwed up…. monumentally… massively… colossally…completely and utterly…

Broken Arrow-and-lost-the-launch-code-to-all-the-nukes bad...

Screwed the pooch…

FUBAR…

What was worst was that he'd only figured it out after the door to the loft had vibrated in its frame and actually knocked something off the work bench with the force of its closing. It essentially took a far more determined effort to slam the heavy metal object as opposed to keeping it from closing too hard.

What was worse still was that he hadn't even _really_ figured it out then on his own. He knew Fiona had left in a bit of a snit. But it had, in point of fact, taken Sam Axe walking through the door hours later to assist Michael in ascertaining just exactly how big a train wreck his latest relationship faux pas truly was with the woman who was not his girlfriend at the moment, or so he'd told anyone who would listen.

"Whatcha got there, Mikey?" his buddy asked as the former SEAL went behind the ex-spy seated at the breakfast bar to retrieve a cold one from the icebox.

"The reasons for my burn notice," he replied succinctly, staring at the pages of the dossier Bly had handed him. "More or less…"

"Are there pictures?" Sam inquired, peering over his shoulder. "Are there any of me in there?"

"In the very front, yeah…" The dark haired man was examining at a photo of a bus explosion somewhere in the Middle East. "What's more interesting is what's in the back half. Nothing like reading a fictionalized account of your life; I'd have burned me too if I'd actually done half of what this says."

_It takes a while to learn how to read intelligence files. They start as stacks of unrelated documents, but stick with it long enough and a pattern can emerge. Of course, not all intelligence is reliable, which means when you're done checking the file, you have to check the source._

"Oh, speaking of burning, brother, I think you burned a _big bridge_ with Fiona. She didn't go into too many details, which for Fi, you know, that means she was REALLY pissed. But, seriously, she bit my head _clean off_ when I called to thank her for helping me out with Ronnie."

Michael stopped staring at the paperwork in front of him and lifted his gaze to the rumpled sheets still lying atop the mattress. _When was the last time he'd gotten up and not made his bed immediately?_ As his eyes drifted back down, he realized belatedly that he was still wearing the same pajama bottoms he had slipped into when he'd awoken in the early morning hours after he and Fiona had…

_Uh…Oh…._

_Not good…_

"So your little scheme to blackmail Bly into getting this for ya really worked, huh?" Mr. Axe chuckled and he reached around the suddenly still man to flip through a couple of pages. "Man, this stuff is _real bad_."

_Yeah, bad…_ He probably was lucky not to have collected another scar… His hand unconsciously drifted towards the mark on the right side of his chest where the beer bottle she'd flung at him had shattered the day she'd figured out he was a spy and not her partner in mayhem named Michael McBride.

_Fi, do you remember when we were together? We were profoundly unhappy. I still have the scars to prove it. You remember? _He had pointed to his sternum and then his bicep_. Dublin? Germany?_

There was something in the file about the hotel bombing in Germany that he'd gotten credit for preventing. The look of anger, hurt and betrayal on her face as she'd sliced his arm while cutting him free flashed through his mind for the merest of moments before his long-time friend drew his attention.

"Got your next move figured out, Mike?"

"Working on it," and there was a more immediate problem he was referring to with that comment.

_In any kind of covert intelligence operation, it's important to be careful of what you wish for. The information that you fight so hard to get may be everything you wished for or it may just make your life more complicated._

Mr. Westen was torn between diving back into his file and resolving his latest mega-misstep in the minefield that was his relationship with Fiona Glenanne. Trouble was, he was completely clueless as to what to do to even begin to apologize for utterly ignoring her this morning after they'd finally been intimate again since their very first time together upon arriving in Miami all those months ago.

_Not that he'd had any idea what to say to her this morning either_.

They'd lain in bed back to back, each knowing the other was awake and not knowing what to do about it for almost an hour after sunrise. It had been so much easier watching her sleep when he'd awoken pre-dawn, his stomach demanding sustenance after the sexual acrobatics of the night before. But now he was pretty sure sticking his head in his burn notice while she showered and left wasn't the right answer.

"So I take it _the big talk_ didn't go well." Sam seemed to be noticing the same things that had drawn Michael's attention away from the thick pile of official and illicitly gained documents in front of them.

He was not about to ask Mr. Axe for relationship advice…. Then he had momentary flash of the former Navy man complaining about Bly pissing off his lady friend du jour and wheedling for more money to soothe the situation before Mike had finally handed the older man a stack of twenties at the Carlito.

_Here you go, Sam. Buy your girlfriend some flowers._

But Fiona wasn't his girlfriend and it felt like he'd be treating her like an asset, just like when he'd shown up with a bouquet of roses to apologize for running off after leaving her alone to complete their first gun deal in Derry back when she thought he was campaigning to join the Real IRA. But she wasn't an asset any more, was she? Of course, he asked her for help all the time, used her contacts, borrowed money…

"Say, Sam, you think that florist friend of yours can cut me a deal on some roses?"

"Flowers, you? Since when?" the ex-SEAL's eyebrows climbed towards his forehead. "Wow, you really must have screwed up, fella. Better check your skivvies for some C4 before you get dressed today."

_Very funny,_ said the expression on Mike's face and _just make the call_ followed very shortly thereafter.

"Jeez, Mikey, maybe you wouldn't be so grouchy if you got some more often instead of you and Fi playing Dances with Ex's all the time," Sam announced as he pulled out his cell.

Mr. Westen buried his head in the intelligence file that allegedly outlined the latter half of his career and refused to look at his best friend until the unshaven man went out on the balcony to finish the call.

_Intelligence work is all about relationships. Like a romance, working with a source is more about the heart than the head. Of course romantic relationships usually end if there's a betrayal, whereas spy relationships often begin with one._

()()()()()()

To say that she had been stunned when she'd returned from her recreational trip to blow off some steam, and some ordinance, at her secret stash house in the Everglades would have been something of an understatement. A note letting her know that she had an attempted floral delivery while she was out had been left hanging on the doorknob of her high-end rental on the Intracoastal Waterway.

_Michael hadn't gotten her flowers since…._ It had been so long ago that she was having trouble recalling.

But the roses had been beautiful and she'd admired them as Ms. Glenanne had come and gone multiple times throughout the following day on her gun running errands. Since she'd had to haul all the way out to the Everglades to use up some of her stock, she'd brought back some hardware the Irish gun runner was sure someone would be interested in eventually as well as replenishing her supply of C-4.

So she'd decided to have mercy on him and not inflict bodily harm when she'd received an invitation to join him at the loft via text the next evening. She had grinned to herself as she'd loaded into her stolen ride de jour and had headed off towards Mr. Westen's abode. The petite woman hadn't been sure what she'd been expecting, but finding him on the bed had not been it. However, until she'd come fully into that cavernous space he called home, the former PIRA bomb maker extraordinaire hadn't realized Michael had dozens of photographs of various explosions laid out over every free inch of the cheap comforter that he used only to cover the mattress, except for the part upon which he'd been sitting.

Whatever preconceptions she'd had of course had then flown out the window when he'd gestured towards the ugly green chair and the table beside the bed, then handed her a magnifying glass. As the ex-spy had outlined his preliminary findings on each picture in turn, the one-time terrorist had been pleased and yet perplexed as he'd asked her opinion of each of them. The evening meal had consisted of leftover takeout and yogurt, but Fiona had become just as enthralled with the puzzles of what and how much explosive had been concealed where to produce the various results in the images before them.

When she'd awoken early the next morning from a catnap on the upstairs couch, Fiona had yawned broadly and told him she was going home. She had invited the dark haired man to lunch the next day if he could get his head out of the dossier long enough to come over to her place, but to call first.

Then she had waited. A few conversations with Sam about Mr. Axe's new found success in his love life had revealed the former covert operative was still pouring through his burn notice particulars non-stop.

So, it was no small surprise when he'd called that morning to come by and then no shocker at all that, as Mr. Westen had walked into her living room and turned the stereo off, he had the file in his hand.

"You're late."

"What's that?"

"I said, you're late," Fiona repeated as Michael removed his sunglasses while tripping over the raised platform that segregated the kitchen area from the rest of the room. "Watch the step," she advised a little too late, never turning from what she was preparing on the stove.

"I made you tuna with tahini," the redhead announced as he approached the chest-high counter which separated them. The sound of the metal against tile had Ms. Glenanne glancing over her shoulder momentarily before turning back to the task at hand. "Your favorite…"

"Good memory," he observed. Michael settled on the tall stool at the bar and opened the blue folder.

"Oh, no…" As soon as the Irishwoman spotted what the ex-spy was doing, her smile faded. "No dossier at lunch," Fiona advised in a tone that brooked no contradiction. Michael flattened his hands to prevent her from taking it. "You have had your head buried in this thing every waking moment since you got it!"

"Come on, Fi. It's not every day you get to read a fictional account of your whole life. Apparently, I sold secrets in Lebanon," The feisty auburn haired woman popped the wine cork and let the red breathe. "Code breaking technology in Jordon, who knew? I gotta figure out my next move."

"I just can't believe it's the only thing on your mind these days."

He sighed heavily. "Fi, I know we haven't talked about what happened the other night. It was—"

Upon hearing Michael's voice soften, she peeked at him over her shoulder again, smiling demurely. "Well, you know what it was. But I—there was a reason why it didn't work before—"

"We were in a war zone." Ms. Glenanne reminded him as she took the thick tome away. "This is Miami, Michael." He couldn't quite hide his grimace until the empty space before him was filled with a hot plate of freshly seared tuna steak, its aroma mixing with that of the tahini sauce, which had his stomach focused on lunch, even if his head and his eyes kept straying towards the dossier on the window sill.

Fiona's cooking skills regarding things which did not include chemical accelerants were spotty at best. Years of being the bomb maker's daughter and living the life of Riley at the side of an international arms dealer had left her lacking in that area. During their time as a couple in Dublin, Michael had taken it upon himself to teach her to make a few dishes beyond the traditional Irish fare, using his cover as a man who'd spent considerable time away from the Emerald Isle, returning home to Kilkenny after the death of his mum in Italy and fleeing some trouble with his Sicilian employers to its full advantage.

The former faux Irishman found that she hadn't lost her touch when it came to his favorite food and pairing it with a fresh salad and a good Pinot Noir had been an easy finish. As he tucked into the offering with more gusto than usual, it occurred to him that he had been forgetting to eat of late and was really hungry. A pleased grin formed on Fiona's face as they sat elbow to elbow enjoying their meal.

"I bought you something."

Michael couldn't quite hide his surprise as he scrapped the last of the tahini sauce off his plate. "Really?"

She hummed an affirmative and then gathered up the plates, taking them around to the sink.

"Do you want to see it?"

"Sure…" His expression of interested anticipation dropped as soon as she took hold of his burn file.

"I'll put this somewhere safe so you can focus properly."

It killed Michael to let the thick folder out of his sight, which he hadn't done from the minute it had landed in his hands. But he'd already gotten in enough trouble with her. He had very few friends in his world at the moment, so he really couldn't afford to piss off his ex-girlfriend…

_Ex-girlfriend…_ that's what he kept saying, but it hadn't felt like it the other night. Although they had hooked up repeatedly here and there around the world since he'd left Dublin, the other night in the loft had felt more like a homecoming that a hook-up and it had scared the hell out of him the next morning.

But Mr. Westen didn't have too long to dwell on that problem, as the source of his confusion came back into the room carrying a light blue cloth with a pocket on top. He stared at her quizzically for moment.

"Uhhhh….thanks?"

Fiona sighed in exasperation. "What's your primary objection to going to the beach?"

"Hot sand…" he answered while the petite woman rolled her eyes at him for that one. He'd been in plenty of hot sand, but apparently it had to be a Middle Eastern desert to qualify as acceptable.

"Too many tourists, the sea gulls, no good cover, nowhere to hide a gun—" the dark haired man continued.

"In a bathing suit," she interrupted, shaking out the knee length shorts with multiple pockets. "If you will note," the ex-guerilla turned gun runner continued. "There are multiple pockets for stashing things and two of these pockets have an internal waterproof seal, which allows the wearer to enter the ocean without damage to the contents. The garment is loose enough to be comfortable and carry a small caliber pistol in each without detection," Fiona finished her sales pitch with a happy grin on her face.

For the first time in days, Michael was interested in something other than his burn notice. He took the pre-offered apparel and examined the details of its construction with great curiosity. Judging by the pocket size, it would hold a .25 caliber automatic or better yet, an MSP silent pistol, though he hadn't seen one of those in many years since leaving Russia behind. The American-made gun would hold more than two rounds in its clip, but the 7.62x38 ammunition was more powerful, had more stopping power.

"Want to try them on? Maybe field test it?"

If she hadn't found the conflict on Mr. Westen's face so irritating, she would have laughed at it.

"Go get changed," she instructed, giving him a shove towards the spare bedroom. "If _you_ can't figure out where I've hidden your dossier, then it's safely tucked away and _you_ get to take me to _the beach_."

There was no arguing with her when she got like this. Once he found the blue folder containing the lies that had lost him his job, then Fiona couldn't argue _with him_ anymore about spending the afternoon seeing if she knew any of his _alleged_ Middle Eastern contacts, even as a friend of a friend of a friend.

And _IF_ he couldn't find it, and that was a _big IF_, then a couple hours at the beach was a small price to pay for the knowledge that he had an alternate place to hide it. Anyone breaking into Fiona's living space would not live long enough themselves to capitalize on their entry. He smiled back at her broadly.

"Deal," he agreed and then trotted off to the other room.

()()()()()

Now that he had his new shorts on and found them comfortable, Michael couldn't wait to see how the pistol fit in the pocket and if the water proofing method would actually work. After a relatively brief and unsuccessful search of the living room and kitchen area, he turned and shouted over his shoulder.

"Where did you leave that little Saturday night special? I can't find it."

Then he had walked into her bedroom without knocking. Maybe it was an old habit brought on by their recent return to intimacy. Maybe it was that the door wasn't quite closed all the way. Or perhaps it was because he had been engaged in playing with the waterproof pocket that he wanted to slip a little .25 automatic into. Whatever the reason, when he finally came to a stop and looked up, there was Fiona standing at the foot of her bed staring at three string bikinis laying on it, naked as the day she was born.

She planted her hands on her hips and glared at him. "I can't decide which one I want to wear," she declared, shifting her frustration from her designer swimwear to the man that was openly ogling her.

"They're all nice," he offered lamely, still slightly stunned by her lack of clothing. Fiona had always been far less inhibited than he was when it came to sleeping in the nude or going about au natural.

"What's the matter, Michael? It's nae like ya've nare seen me in me birthday suit befer," the Irishwoman teased, letting her natural lilt return for a moment as she smiled at his dazed expression.

That was true, but it had been awhile since he'd seen her standing so brazenly unclothed in full daylight.

The sunshine filtering in through the shear curtains was bathing her tan skin and her loose auburn hair in a warm glow. He had done his best to ignore the sexual attraction he'd felt for her since he'd found himself dumped in Miami. He'd only given in on that very first time she'd come to Miami because he'd thought she'd be gone again the next day. After the other night, however, being reminded full force of what he'd been missing, the sight of his ex-lover's assets being totally on display was too hard to ignore.

Besides, he _was_ supposed to be apologizing to her and she never could stay mad after _this_ kind of _sorry_.

"How about you go with nothing?" Michael suggested with a tilt of his head towards the bed.

"Nothing?" she smirked. "Are you trying to get me arrested? I'm allergic to jail cells if you'll recall."

"I'm not too crazy about them either," the ex-spy agreed, slowly closing the distance between them until they were side by side. "Though sometimes _behind_ the police station can be nice."

The seductive smile that spread across his lips and the answering sparkle in her mischievous blue green eyes said they were both thinking about the time McBride had insisted on helping her make a better memory out of her time at the lock-up in Derry during their wild days causing mayhem back in Ireland.

"Are you here to help me pick out a swim suit?" the flame haired siren inquired, leaning in close to whisper into his ear as nearly as she could manage, despite being so many inches shorter.

"Actually, I was looking for that .25 automatic you got out for me to try putting in the bathing suit."

"I'd say," Fiona purred, as she placed her palm over the growing bulge in the front of that aforementioned bathing suit. "That you already have _quite a gun_ in those shorts."

He hadn't intended to groan, he really hadn't… he just couldn't help it as those oh so skilled fingers of hers slipped inside the blue material surrounding his manhood and expertly sheathed it in her grasp.

"Is there a problem, Michael?"

He swallowed thickly. "N-no…no problem at all."

He leaned down and kissed her, slowly at first and then more demanding as his hands ghosted down her back before settling over her behind, cupping the taut curves in his rough palms and pulling her close.

This only added to pressure of her hand on his rapidly hardening length, all thoughts of beach or burn notice flying out of his head at the moment, for as her lover tightened his grip upon her flesh, Fiona continued to stroke more firmly at the same measured pace. The Irishwoman pushed her tongue against his teeth, insisting on entry which he gladly granted, though a very _tiny_ part of brain thought this was a _really_ bad idea. However, his mind was no longer in charge of what was going on between them.

Their tongues swirled and danced and she sighed into his mouth, the sound of it arousing him almost as much as what she was doing to him with her hand. Then Fiona broke the kiss, only to plant dozens of little butterfly kisses along the underside of his chin and all over his neck. He was grateful he'd thought to shave before he'd come by. When her lips closed over the harden nub next to the scar she'd given him, the free hand that had been sliding along the tight muscles of his back slipped over and her thumb began to stroke the other one. The redhead grinned as he groaned again even louder than before.

"oh, Fi…Fi, hold a minute…ohhh…"

Giving him a little nip that caused him to gasp, she then pulled her lips away but not her hand.

"Do you want me to stop, Michael?" Fiona queried, giving his erection even more of a squeeze.

"Definitely not," he replied, sliding his large paws up her waist and along her sides before cupping her small breasts much he had just done to her behind. "Just wanted to return the favor…"

Her dark haired lover dipped his head and kissed her again, immediately pushing his tongue past her teeth while he continued to massage the soft pliant mounds of flesh, pinching and rolling her nipples between his thumb and forefinger. Now it was the petite woman's turn to moan long and loud as their mouths moved against one another in a familiar dance of oral delights.

"Like that?" he asked, drawing away from her for just a second. Fiona threw her head back in response.

Michael took the invitation and kissed, licked and nipped along her throat, pausing at the sweet soft spot where her neck met her shoulder before working his way over her collar bone and then down to where his fingers were making her nipples very hard indeed.

He alternated between his hands and his mouth, working for side to side, lavishing attention on the second two most sensitive spots on her body, so much so that her hold upon him became a little too tight and the rhyme somewhat erratic.

He straightened up and smiled down at her, loving the lust-filled look in those beautiful blue green eyes.

"Am I distracting you?" Michael smirked. "Cuz I bet I can make you totally lose your concentration."

His lover slipped her thumb over the top of his length, spreading the pre-cum and making _him_ moan.

"What was that you were saying?" she challenged with a broad grin on her face.

Shedding his shorts, the dark haired man dropped to his knees, fast enough to loosen her grasp on the most precious part of his anatomy, but slow enough that she didn't hurt his best friend. Taking hold of the back of her calf, her lover moved up her limb until, grasping the back of her knee, he threw her leg over his shoulder and smiled. "_I said_ I bet I can make you totally lose your concentration."

He pressed a light kiss to the apex of the little landing strip of hair between her legs and sent a shiver throughout her whole body. "In fact, I bet you'll be laid out on the bed before I'm done."

Whatever comeback Fiona had in mind died on her tongue as his slid along her warm wet folds before settling on her most sensitive spot, probing in small insistent circles and making her legs quiver. His fingers dug into her ass again, pressing her womanhood against his face and holding her in place as well as upright. Her fingers threaded through the short dark hair of his head down there, anchoring herself while she grabbed the bedpost with her other hand, which would have made him grin had he seen it.

Thoroughly enjoying the long, low moans that were coming from a former hardened paramilitary soldier while he alternated between probing and stroking along her most intimate place, Michael judged it was almost time to make good on his wager. Sliding a finger and then another into her, he almost lost control himself as the muscles that were reserved for only him clamped over his digits. The breathy sighing turned to harsh panting as the ex-spy increased the tempo of pleasing her and then _it was time_.

Fiona's limbs shook as her former boyfriend suckled hard _right there_ and curved his finger upward, hitting _the spot_. Totally against her will, the Irishwoman shouted his name and collapsed on the bed. Michael would have gloated at the sight of her laid out trembling and breathless, her eyes tightly closed, except he knew that he wasn't going to last much longer himself. Straddling the siren, he paused a moment to admire her sweat slicked oh so soft skin and wild auburn tresses as Fiona tried to get her heaving chest under control. He slipped his hands under her shoulders and scooted her up the mattress.

Opening her eyes, she blinked once and then smiled softly. "I won…"

He started to protest before Michael suddenly took her meaning. "Yes… would like to win again?"

The redhead hummed a very pleased affirmative, spreading her legs in an _open_ invitation Mr. Westen willingly accepted. Meeting almost no resistance from her completely relaxed body, the dark haired man slid slowly into the place he wanted to be the most, mutual sighs of satisfaction coming from the pair.

Fiona raised her languid limbs to encompass his body in her embrace. Her arms threaded underneath his, her fingers gliding along his scalp, sending shivers shooting along his nerve endings towards the center of his whole focus, and then her ankles wrapped around his ass, letting him know without a word what was required of him. Michael tried to control himself, setting a steady pace, wanting to draw out this part of their love making as long as possible, but it wasn't long before his lover was lost in another orgasm, gasping out his name as their pelvic bones met over and over again in pursuit of pure pleasure.

Then he couldn't contain it anymore. Thrusting and pumping, his whole body on fire until every part of him was reduced to that point of sweet surcease, and then he exploded in a rush of white hot heat, the abundance endorphins consuming him.

It was only like this _with her_. He'd had decent sex, good sex, occasionally great sex in his lifetime mostly before and some after Ireland. But only being with Fiona made him feel _like this _and_ this _was why he'd fought so hard to keep his distance from her when he'd realized she wasn't going anywhere. _This shouldn't be happening_. But, his form still quivering with the aftershocks of his own orgasm, he eased his eyes open and raised his head to meet her contented gaze.

"We could spend the whole day in bed, just like Dublin," she said simply before drawing him in for a sweet kiss. "Unless you'd rather have just a little nap before we go to the beach."

_There it was- that echo of the past_, the conflict again between what he _wanted_ and what he _needed_.

He pressed his lips to her forehead and then pulled out and away from his Irish lover. As he rolled onto his back, she tucked into his side, throwing an arm and an ankle across his frame to hold him there with her in the afterglow a moment longer. His brain was apparently still drowning in dopamine; otherwise Michael surely would have thought his next statement through a little more thoroughly before speaking.

"No, we can spend the day here. More comfortable in air conditioning going through the contact list-"

The hand that was stroking his chest suddenly became the fingers pinching him hard.

"Ow, Fi, what was that for?" he demanded rubbing the sore spot.

"Did you _find_ your dossier?" she countered, sitting up on one elbow and staring him down.

"Well, no, but… I thought—"

"You thought _what_? You thought I'd forgotten what you promised me, Michael?"

He closed his eyes and threw his head back into the pillow. _This_ was why being with Fiona was so complicated. He sighed and then looked into the face of the woman that still haunted his dreams.

"Okay, fine. The beach it is. But we're going through that contact list when we get back. Deal?"

"_If_ you can find your little file when we get back, _fine_." Her expression was somewhere between a smirk and a scowl. "Otherwise… we'll see."

()()()()()()()()

"_Fi, the beach is this way_."

"_I actually gotta little errand to run first," _she'd announced, suddenly walking away from the sand and surf she'd been so keen to get to. "_It'll only take a second_."

"_What will?"_

"_Bagging a bail jumper, I thought it'd be fun_." Fiona had always been all about combining work with pleasure whenever possible. Michael _McBride_ had always been up for a bit of mischief. _She didn't get _it__.

"_You're a bounty hunter now, Fi?" _Actually she'd been a bounty hunter for a while, now that he'd thought about it. Hadn't she tried to tell him about hauling in a dodgy meth dealer months ago, to which of course he'd informed her he didn't want to hear about her other jobs _because he really hadn't cared_?

"_Girl's gotta eat. There's this bondsman, he gives me odd jobs." _Did he even bother to ever ask himself how she was always had the money to lend him, help him? _Did he really think all those favors were free?_

"_Fi!" _He had protested, standing still on the sidewalk_. Going to the beach to please her was one thing…_

"_How often do I help you?" _Then he knew she was getting a little fed up with life on a one-way street.

Michael had at least had the good grace to get the point and hang his head._ "All the time_," he had admitted as he'd patted her on the arm and nodded with that dark head of his.

And that was how it had started.

So, _"I want to help him,"_ didn't really have anything to do with the hapless Tomas McKee. It was _"Do it __for me__, Michael"_ that was the point. He got _that_. Her bright eyed attentiveness was _not_ her interest in how Mr. McKee had gotten set up along with the night manager of _The Victor_ hotel. But somehow he'd managed to miss the point _again_ when they were discussing where to stash their clueless client.

"_You're okay with that, another guy staying at my place?"_

"_Yeah, fine by me."_

"_Okay, then, fine with me too."_

And then he'd asked for his dossier back before he left because he knew she wouldn't fly off the handle and kill him in front of the man she'd just agreed to help… _for eight grand. How did she manage that?_

"_Mike, piece of advice, ladies like attention, they don't want to be second to a dossier, not even a big one." _Sam had pointed out the problem to him again later that night. But it was the same problem he'd had with Fiona from the beginning. _He only truly understood relationships as transactional ones_.

Because there he was, standing on her back patio, asking for another favor, just like he had from Sam.

"_I need a favor, Fi. I need you to reach out to your black market contacts, the scarier the better."_

"_Is this about the dossier?"_ and she had said it like the dirty word it apparently was to her.

"_It's about the man who burned me. He's hard to reach. I need to recruit some help."_

So, if she'd just agreed to help him with what he wanted and he could leave, why should it bother him that Tomas was teaching Fiona baseball, which was nothing like cricket, and making from the smell of it some really amazing, apparently handmade, sausages along with whatever else that was for lunch?

And was it truly about Wayne Ray crashing her place to capture Tomas McKee or was it because flirting with the lost loser wasn't as effective if _he_ wasn't there to see it?

"_What're you doing?"_

"_I'm not doing anything. We're working."_

"_No, this is different and you know this is different."_

"_I didn't think we were in a relationship, Michael."_

Back to his problem again… they _had been_ in a _relationship_, but sort of, not really, because he had been under a cover ID, but then _afterwards_…they had had a working relationship, _sort of like they had now…_

"_I just gotta go on record. I think this whole thing with Fiona is unhealthy. You gotta go through all this crap just to get some guy she picked up out of your place?"_

Sam was as bipolar about his relationship with his fiery co-worker as he was. The pair went from best buds to adversaries and back again so quickly that both men had trouble keeping up. The ex-SEAL had been opposed to him re-establishing a relationship with his former PIRA asset for a variety of reasons.

"_So, how are things at home?"_

"_A little strange, Fiona likes to test relationships with the emotional equivalent of artillery fire."_

"_Does she even want this guy?"_

"_I don't know. I've never been able to figure her out."_

But the truth was, he could figure her out…_sometimes…_ He just never liked the answer and could never figure out what to do about what he felt for the Irishwoman because _it scared him_. A lifetime of spy training and the need to serve his country and a higher calling, do something important, something he was good at... those were in direct conflict with the things he felt when he was with Fiona, working with her, sharing a life, such that it was burned and disavowed and stuck in Miami, sharing a bed with her…

"_All this to clear the name of an innocent man… That's noble. You should be proud."_

"_You know who I did this for, Fi."_

Michael got it wrong_… a lot_…She was his ex-girlfriend, she was his tactical support, and she was one of his best friends, but Fiona was also… _She was…._ And for all that, still, sometimes, he'd got it right…

"_I got you something too."_

When Fiona turned the snow globe over in her hand and the sly smile spread over her face as the fiery former terrorist read the words _Welcome to Miami_, he was pretty sure he'd gotten it right that time.

_Although she did almost bean him with it shaking it up, _but that too was part of being around Fi_…_

And after he'd driven her back home that same morning, when he found himself grunting and grabbing the steering wheel of the Charger with both hands in a secluded part of the covered parking garage that belonged to her exclusive apartment complex while her head was in his lap, her mouth was _right there_ and her hands, tongue and teeth were driving him completely insane in the best sort of way possible…

He _knew_ he'd _really_ gotten it right…

_That time…. _


	13. Reunion

_**A/N: **__This is the wrap-up of my take on Shockwave/Reunion. This takes place between the opening scene of __**6.07 Reunion**__ with Michael and Fiona on the beach and Sam joining the two of them at the loft in the next scene and follows immediately after the two pieces in While Fiona Sleeps/While Michael Sleeps. _

_Much love and appreciation to all the beautiful Burners out there who are still on BN FF, to those who are still reading and reviewing (thanks!) and everyone still hanging out at #BurnerClub on Thursdays! _

()()()()()()

The light had penetrated the clouds as surely as her presence had penetrated the darkness in his heart.

_So, tomorrow came after all…just like she promised…_

He'd been sitting next to her on the beach, not seeing the sunrise, not seeing the sand or the surf spreading out on the shoreline as the tide rose and fell, feeling drained and hollow, but now deeply grateful that she was still satisfied with being by his side, _that she still desired his company even after..._

"Let's go get the bastard that killed your brother."

Of all the things Fiona could have said to him, that was the one thing which allowed him to focus on the next steps and distract himself from the pain of what had happened, anxiety over what might happen and the remorse and the regret that overlaid everything which had transpired in the last twenty hours.

If he'd had any room left in his head or his heart for any more emotions he detested, Michael would have probably found some space to be mortified by his breakdown overnight. But the Irishwoman who had captured his heart, often as infuriating as she was intoxicating, had known exactly what he'd needed to get through the grief of disappointing everyone in his life, or so he'd thought when his brother had become the latest martyr to his cause of destroying the organization that had burned him.

To say that having the Agency intrude into their lives at this moment would have been most unwelcome was an gross understatement and yet they both found themselves happy to see a note from Dani Pearce attached to Fiona's purse that Sam was holding, once they'd gathered up their shoes and the beach blanket and had returned to the boardwalk that ran parallel to the property line of the Darabont Hotel.

Ms. Glenanne had taken the leather bag gingerly, glad more for its contents that the reminder of what she'd been carrying on her shoulder that fateful day she'd turned herself into the FBI. That the former prisoner had been released without her belongings as any other ex-con would have was a testament to how quickly the CIA had arranged for her release wherein standard protocol had been circumvented.

So it seemed that Tom Card had taken Michael's threat to pick Fiona up from Allarod last night even if he had to blast a hole in it quite seriously; however, it had apparently been Agent Pearce's handiwork to ensure that the former inmate's possessions had found their way back to the owner.

After passing along their utter appreciation to Ms. Dearborn via her boyfriend, they'd agree to all meet at the loft after Sam had had a chance to get his FBI buddies on the phone and see what the Feds had managed come up with since yesterday while they both showered off and changed into new clothes.

Fiona wondered if she should burn the dress immediately or save it as a reminder of what went wrong.

They'd started the ride back to the loft in companionable quiet, holding hands across the expanse of white leather between them. But as they'd gotten closer to the warehouse on the river that had served originally as Michael's base of operations before becoming their first home together, the sounds of silence in the car grew louder, both of them retreating into their own head space.

And when they arrived, Fiona found herself having an almost out of body experience as Michael opened the gate and then drove the large black muscle car into its place at the base of the rusted staircase.

Being here again was surely surreal as she remembered now the last time she'd left all those months ago. _She had been so desperate; she'd sacrificed herself for him, to stop him from destroying himself._

The former flame haired paramilitary suddenly felt all manner of mixed emotions crowding in on her as she ascended upwards, especially when she passed by him on the landing, her dark haired lover holding the door open and then his hand lightly caressing her bare back.

_"If I have to plant this thing, if I have to burn them, I will find a way to fix it. I've broken into CIA computers before. I can do it again. I will find a way."_

_"How many people will you destroy if you can't?"_

The price of her freedom had been nothing compared to the cost to his soul, she had decided.

_"What do you want me to say, Fi? I'm doing this for you?"_

How many years had she waited for him to put her first, make her the most important thing in his life?

"_We start down that road, we can't come back and I'll lose you and I can't lose you."_

As Michael moved on into the room, removing his jacket and laying it on the bed, she stopped by the stairs, swallowing thickly as she brushed by the metal grate and felt it catch on her dress.

"_What are you doing?_

"_I'm buying time. I can't let you do this. Not yet."_

It all came at her in a rush then, though she tried to shake it off. _No, last night had changed everything!_

But it was all there again nonetheless: the look on his face while he had stood framed in the doorway….

"_I'm sorry, Fiona."_

And then the feelings of disbelief_…_ _while it had slowly sunken what he'd done…_ followed by betrayal and frustration… _that had morphed into rage as she'd tugged on the handcuffs, bellowing her denials… _until panic had set in and she'd screamed his name, consumed by abhorrent helplessness… _No, never again!_

"I'm going to take a shower," she announced suddenly, unable now to wait one more second to get the damned dress off. The redhead turned on her heel and headed towards the back of the loft, almost throwing her handbag onto the work bench, but not quite.

The ex-spy looked up, watching her retreating back and long swaying hair while continuing to unfasten the buttons from the front of his dress shirt and then the cuffs. Shrugging out of the garment, he sat down heavily on the end of the bed to remove his footwear and hosiery before taking off his belt too.

The guilt he felt about everything, radiating from the center of bare chest where his heart used to be, seemed as though it would crush him under its weight. The last time he could recall feeling like this, he'd metaphorically cut that organ out when he'd left her behind in Ireland all those long years ago.

_It reminds me of the first time I lost you in Ireland. I'd see you in my dreams. When I wake up and you were still gone, the dreams hurt. But they were all that kept me going. They did then and they do now. _

That letter had reminded him the former PIRA guerilla had gone to prison the same month he'd been forced to leave her behind twelve years before. All those miserable months he'd spent reflecting on the reasons for her absence had included the fear that he would never see her again. Unlike the aftermath of Ireland, there would be no reunions as there had been over the years in between being forced onboard a jet in Belfast and being dumped off a plane from Nigeria, only to be kicked awake by her.

As frantically as he had been trying to keep her from leaving him by turning herself in, he had been just as frenzied trying to keep from being dragged away from her. When Tom Card had pronounced the death sentence on their relationship, he'd been crazed enough to go and meet with Liam Glenanne.

_Even now he wasn't sure what he'd been thinking then, what he had hoped to accomplish by pleading with him… maybe it was only to ensure that her brother would protect her once he had been forced out._

Michael sighed as he heard his Irish spitfire humming the tune that had always comforted them both back then, the same one she had sung last night. In the end, he had taken Rayna Kopec's advice, locked his feelings away and taken a mission to Bosnia to bring in one of the vicious monsters he'd been forced to live amongst. _Exacting justice had helped him walk away from Fiona and return to life in the field_.

Running a hand through his short dark hair, the covert operative thought idly about what his life would be like now if he had chosen to ignore his former training officer's demands and run away with his lover.

It was one of the many things he'd contemplated as the time he'd spent alone in the loft continually brought that seminal moment in their relationship back to his attention while being surrounded by all the changes that she'd made after he'd asked her to move in, thinking then that it was safe to do so.

"_Oh, I see you finally got a woman's touch in here. Or is it Fiona?"_

"_Eight hundred thread count sheets have their perks. Flowers… I could take 'em or leave 'em…"_

But the flowers had all died ages ago and the potpourri had lost its scent... all thrown away during her time away… and all because he'd missed seeing Larry hiding behind the gate that fateful day…

"_I'm a clinical psychiatrist working for the DIA."_

He'd thrown away the chair Anson had sat in that day after he'd pulled him from the trunk of Larry's car too… after he'd tossed it off the balcony and then smashed what was left of it into kindling that is, once he'd returned from his failed attempts to stop her from turning herself in, from failing to catch the SOB.

And thinking about Dr. Fullerton, about the hole the bastard had blasted in his life, consumed him again.

"_Ruined your life? I gave you a life, Michael! You were alone. You hadn't talked to your family in years. The love of your life was lonely and abandoned in Ireland, not sure if you were dead or alive. Look what you have now. You want to throw it all away? Can you throw it all away?"_

But he had lost it all any way… Like some damned Greek tragedy, he had caused the very thing he was trying to prevent… and Fiona had gone to prison… and that had not been the worst thing that happened_._

"_This is your fault! Damn you! Damn you for letting your brother die!"_

Madeline's son stared with unseeing moisture filled eyes, determined not to thinking about how that grinning devil had managed even in his death to rob him of the people he cared about the most, until Michael dropped his head into his hands and blinked back the tears.

_"Michael, one more thing, you can't always save everybody."_

Her prophetic parting comment from a day that seemed ages ago came back to him. If only he had let Fiona kill Anson with that sniper rifle he'd been adjusting his mother's garage that morning, none of this would have happened and his brother would still be alive. Shame warred with rage as he remembered shielding the sonuvabitch with his own body. _Why the hell hadn't he just let her take the shot then?_

The dark haired man bit down hard on his bottom lip. _He'd cried enough last night. He wasn't going to do it again today. _He pulled his phone out of his pocket and stared at it while another part of him heard the shower start, knowing it would be a few minutes before she'd get any hot water from the taps.

_"All those years I was gone, when I never called, part of the reason was so something like this couldn't happen. So, the people I loved couldn't be used against me."_

_"For a long time, I didn't understand that. I apologize, honey…" _

Her son doubted very much that his mother was in a forgiving mood right now. He dropped the cell onto the bed and finally focusing on what was actually in front of him. Fi's snow globes glistened in the early morning light. To move them would be admitting she wasn't coming back, so they had stayed put.

Michael heard her quietly curse and it shook him out of his distracted reverie, trying to discern the cause of it. By the time he got to his bare feet, he had the answer. He'd taken all her bath products out of the tiny room at the back of the loft. He couldn't bring himself to undo the changes she'd made to the large space he was standing in, but he couldn't deal with seeing her things every time he'd showered alone.

Walking quickly towards the kitchen, he went to retrieve her hair things and body wash from under the sink, feeling embarrassed once again that he had let another detail slip his mind when it came to her.

Her lover padded into the bathroom to find Fiona lifting her face to the fine spray, a smile of deep satisfaction and relief on her lovely countenance as she slowly rotated her head from side to side and ran her fingers through her saturated auburn hair.

Mr. Westen stood transfixed for a moment, staring at her lithe naked body on display, easily seen through the thin plastic barrier between them. Fiona _was_ thinner than he remembered, her ribs almost protruding and that awful omnipresent feeling of remorse as to what he saw as his culpability in her condition fought with another more primal feeling that the sight of her completely exposed brought on.

Then the Irishwoman opened her eyes and turned her gaze on him, the smile becoming a soft smirk.

"D'ya like sommit ya see then, lad?" Her oft spoken catch phrase from their Dublin days stirred something deep within him as he ran another appreciative eye over her form. The water glistening on her skin, soaking through her hair and wetting her face gave her an extra glow. _Fiona was so beautiful…_

"Always, lass," Michael answered back, extending the bottle of shampoo in one hand while holding the other two containers easily in the crook of his arm.

But the Irishwoman wanted more than merely hair cleanser at that moment. Instead of taking the proffered product, she reached out and took hold of his elbow, pulling him towards the small gap in the shower curtain at the back of the tub where she now stood away from the spray and to her waiting lips.

Fiona got up on her tiptoes and kissed him lightly, not her usual style at all, while letting go of his arm only to slide her hand over the back of his neck, massaging the tense muscles there.

"Would you care to join me?" she whispered once she had released her dark haired lover. It was an actual question, not an invitation, and it made Michael's heart hurt. They had been so close the night before. However, now it felt as though there was something between them even bigger than the prison walls that had separated them just the day before and he felt as if he were the cause.

"Yes…please…"

The sodden redhead gave him a quick peck and took the shampoo. "Come on then," she urged.

Before all the hot water's gone," she added, reaching out to take the other two bottles from his arm while he striped himself of his dress pants and boxers and then stepped in as well.

And it was her turn to see the changes in his frame. He too was leaner. Exercising intensely to exhaust himself and living on yogurt and bottled water, Fiona had no doubt. The Irishwoman could see it in her head as her fingers ghosted over his ribs and then around his back, pulling him into a tight embrace.

"I've missed you, Fi," Michael reiterated his confession from earlier in the day, this time staring down at her intently with misty blue orbs.

"Good," she repeated her rejoinder as well, smiling gently before lifting her chin. Her eyes slid closed as their mouths met and this time it was not distress and desire crashing together. It was two pieces of a whole that had been ripped apart merging together, two hearts beating as one once more.

Just like it had the night he'd thought she'd died in the fire at Derek Poole's house, Michael felt the shower spray washing away some of the pain as his dominant emotion became gratitude for her being there. She had survived Anson's attempts to murder her in prison. _She was free and_ _she was home_.

He chose to ignore the price which had purchased that liberty and concentrated instead on the welcome warmth of her bare lithe body pressed up against his, the familiar touch of tongue against teeth when he deepened the kiss, sighing at the sweet surcease, his mind taking him to another small bathroom in a dingy little flat in Dublin where he had also been willfully ignorant of everything but the woman he held.

Memories of their shared passion blended together with the pleasure of her presence and the darkness in his heart retreated albeit temporarily. _While they were here, he felt like he could breathe again_.

Hands began to wander as the kisses became more purposeful, gliding over one another's backs and backsides, squeezing and stroking, until it turned into nuzzling and nipping at necks and shoulders, the sounds of their ardor filling the tiny space and feeding his need to possess her.

When she took him into her hand, encompassing his manhood in her sure grip, Michael couldn't help the deep groan that tore from his lips or the plea that was soon fulfilled as they slid downwards.

Fiona reached back to turn the water off while settling at the bottom of the old porcelain tub. They would need some semblance of warm water to wash up afterwards she knew.

"C'mere," he called quietly and she complied, taking his face in her fingers and kissing him with growing urgency as she welcomed him home, slowly sliding over him, bringing him back into her body, enveloping him in her most intimate of embraces before squeezing with muscles reserved only for him.

And it was her turn to moan, reveling in the completeness of being filled by him, something she had almost given up on ever feeling again. She felt her heart begin to race at the bliss of being with him.

They moved against each other while hands explored once more, touching reverently as their mouths wandered from lips to other areas readily within reach. Their easy dance of intimacy quickened steadily, their movements bringing them closer in heart and closer to the edge of orgasmic relief. Then he was gasping from the flood of endorphins and overwhelming adoration for her that preceded his release.

Michael threw his head back, shaking as his senses whited out except for the feeling of her arms holding him tightly and came back to himself to find Fiona pressing little butterfly kisses all over his taut throat.

He swallowed hard and then grinned at the light in her blue green eyes before capturing her lips. He was fairly certain he had finished well before she had; however, her long time lover had every intention of making that up to her and he was equally convinced his petite pixie wouldn't object to his plans.

"Turn around," he requested as she eased herself off of his lap, curiosity sparking in her expression before she turned her back to him.

Grabbing her body wash with one hand, Michael flipped her wet mane over her shoulder with the other and then proceeded to use the cleanser as a lubricant too. Gliding his large paws over her skin, her lover worked the supple muscles of her back and shoulders. He remembered the full body massage that had been his homecoming present after months in the field chasing down the organization that had burned him and he had every intention of returning that gesture now to welcome her back from her absence.

Fiona was purring by the time he scooted closer and she leaned back into his chest, leaving him room to work down her arms. Once done, his hands cupped her rounded mounds, fondling the pliant flesh until he started nibbling at her exposed neck and pinching her nipples. His beloved arched into him with a long lusty groan, now separating her thighs to allow him access to her womanhood.

With a firm touch, her dark haired lover explored her wet center; penetrating her with his fingers before sliding them back over the place she wanted them the most. As the pace grew more determined, her body began to quiver, his other hand on her breast added to her delight. Michael reached down further, curving his fingers to hit that bundle of nerves deep inside her while the rough heel of his hand put pressure on her center of universe at that moment and she shook from the ecstasy that overcame her.

He held Fiona tight as she trembled, struggling to get her breathing under control while basking in the unbridled joy of their heated reunion. She had been so afraid that they would never have time together like this again. He had left her so many times over the years since he'd abandoned her in Ireland, but somehow they had always managed to run into each other, only to part ways yet again, _but no more!_

She sighed deeply as he moved his head around and they kissed with a sense of completeness before helping her to her feet. Fiona turned the water back on and Michael insisted on washing the rest of her top to bottom, which caused some serious aftershocks as he cleaned away the evidence of her orgasm.

But soon she was humming with happiness, her man determined to shampoo her long locks as well. So she enjoyed the feel of his strong hands on her scalp and in her thick tangled mane, appreciating his gentleness while he undid the damage prison and a long night out in the wind had done to her hair.

After they dried and dressed, she knew the good mood would not last and she was okay with that. She understood that once Sam arrived, the worries of the world would return in full force and their moment of peace would turn into the intensity of hunting down the bastard that had killed his brother. Fiona went around, straightening things up for the ex-SEAL's arrival while Michael went out onto the balcony to try to call Madeline. As he left his pleading message, it brought back more sad memories of home.

The Irishwoman had thought once she'd been freed that she would get the opportunity to banish the ghosts of Belfast past. But after what happened to Nate, she was feeling _back home_ more than ever now and perhaps it was a good thing. Now, Fiona felt that she and Michael were on the same page again, like they had been back in Ireland, like they had been before Anson Fullerton had arrived.

Watching him with understanding as he called the funeral home to ensure the arrangements were underway, she acknowledged her own grief back then and how _Michael McBride_ had changed her life.

_Yes, he'd lied to her at first and since, but their mission had been the same_. In the years in between they would frequently disagree about their goals and often about accomplishing them even when they were mutual. But for once in their relationship, Fiona was dead certain she knew exactly where he stood and precisely how he felt. _They would avenge his family and then they could move on with their lives. _

()()()()()()()()

So it had been with no small amount of happiness she'd heard him announce that they would shoot to kill once they'd donned their Kevlar and packed their go bags to head out to hunt down Rebecca.

Equally, it had been with no small amount of shock that she had stood there while the bleeding blonde was allowed to exit the loft still breathing.

Michael had demanded Rebecca convince him she was not the sniper responsible for Nate's death and apparently she had done so, as he'd lowered the gun and given her a terse command to _go_. They were good and she was as good as gone, offering her condolences on her way to depart for parts unknown.

"And uh, I am sorry for your loss. I hope you find the son of a bitch who pulled the trigger."

The former paramilitary relaxed her posture, tucking her gun into the small of her back in the waistband of her jeans and letting out the breath she had been holding when the heavy door had closed with its usual squall and the sound of another ex-spy pounding down the stairs could be heard.

"We should clean up the blood before it stains," he said, still staring at the floor near the wooden counter that had served as planning space, kitchen table and make shift bed on a couple of occasions.

It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him to do it himself, as he'd failed to finish off his most likely suspect. But something in his tone held her back, so she offered her opinion on the best way to do that, neither of them finding it odd that they were both experts at cleaning up after bullet ridden people.

While they were in the process of removing the evidence that former CIA Agent Lange ever been there, she said what was on both their minds.

"So now that it's not Rebecca," and Fiona failed to keep the opinion on that matter out of her voice despite her best efforts. "Who's the next name on our suspect list?"

"We'll have to wait and see what the FBI comes up with," his voice very clearly betraying his frustration with that. "They've just started their investigation and Pearce was clear the Agency was off the case."

"Hmmm, well, I could kick a few tires and see what blows up…" she offered with a grin.

"No, Fi, no," Michael countered quickly. "You can't, not after what happened with Greyson Miller. It's too dangerous."

And he proceeded to tell her what Sam had told him about his and Barry's encounter with one Garrett Hartley because the money launder had been the one to handle the funding on her gun deals. She laughed when she heard a former straight arrow Navy man had actually blown up a house on his own.

"I have found that a bombing campaign can be very therapeutic when dealing with ones troubles."

"Fi-on-a," he admonished before realizing she was probably referring to what she'd been suspected of doing in England following Claire's death more than anything she was actually proposing doing now.

"Well, if we're not going to be kicking down doors and getting answers, what are we going to do?"

"The funeral is tomorrow," Michael reminded her quietly, sitting down heavily on the end of bed as if the weight of the world was suddenly on his shoulders again. The redhead sat next to him and took his hand into hers, raising it up to kiss his knuckles before he turned it over to cradle her cheek in his palm.

"We should get out of town for a while after that," she told him, staring into his sad eyes with sympathy.

"We should stay," he objected. "What if FBI comes up with something? What if my mom…"

Michael swallowed thickly, blinking hard and biting his lips again as he dropped his hand back to his lap.

"Your mom needs some time and _you_ are going to need to get away after you… after the service." She pasted on her best cheery smile. "Sam told me you went on a cruise with Pearce to help catch the guy that killed her fiancé while I was… away... Maybe we could go on one for fun."

The expression on Michael's face clearly said what he thought about being trapped on an ocean liner in the middle of the sea with no exits for non-mission critical purposes. "I don't think being out on a ship in open water would be a good idea given your current standing in the gun running community."

"I suppose so," she agreed reluctantly. "Jojo's probably not going to want to talk to me right now, much less lend me one of his boats and I don't think Sam would appreciate it if we got one of Elsa's shot up either. But trust me when I tell you this, Michael, you need to take some time away."

"We should talk to Sam… see if the FBI has found anything."

"Okay, give him a call."

It was on her mind to take him out to her safe house in the Everglades. It was deserted and there were plenty of explosive toys to play with. But then she thought better of it. No one knew where it was, not even Michael, and it was out of cellular communication range. They needed to able to be contacted.

Watching him pace on the balcony with the phone to his ear, Fiona decided that somewhere in Mr. Axe's little black book was the location of a secluded beach house in the Keys or maybe Sanibel Island that they could use. Because she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt how difficult tomorrow was going to be for the Westen family and just how much Michael was going to need a quiet place to decompress.

()()()()()()()

And the funeral was going every bit as bad as she'd anticipated. One look at Madeline's grim stony expression, her red rimmed eyes as hard and black as flint standing next to her baby boy's coffin, and Michael had completely shut down. The pair would alternate between stealing glances at one another and looking everywhere but at each other throughout the entire affair as it turned out.

The church filled up quickly, mostly with people from the old neighborhood, small sliver of land between two rivers with Overtown on one side and Little Havana on the other. But Madeline's poker club was there, as were the Taylor Brothers, David and Lauren, Bill and Jenna Reese and even Katya surprisingly. Normally the opportunity to chat with a crowd of people who had known Michael in his youth would have been irresistible, but it seemed the only time this ever happened was when someone had died.

The most unsurprising absences were Nate's ex-wife and his son Charlie. But since Fiona had already overhead Jesse telling Sam how Michael had given him his brother's cell phone and asked him to let Ruth know what had happened, while the pair stood behind them guarding Mr. Westen's back, there was no need to ask. As Nate's death had convinced her that she'd been right all along to flee the dangers of Miami, she wasn't returning and Madeline would have barred her from attending anyway.

Handing her lover off to his best friend, who had thoughtfully invited a few of his police buddies to the service at Michael's suggestion to keep the crowds of Nate's less savory acquaintances away from the proceedings, Fiona had made her way towards to his mother. Mrs. Westen was talking to an older man and the bottle blonde's displeasure with him was barely concealed. As the Irishwoman approached, she caught a thick Southern accent declaring that at least _Maddie still had her eldest boy to look after her._

With an extremely terse, _excuse me_, leaving her lips, the older woman had stormed off and it was all the former PIRA operative could do to keep without making a scene. But eventually she'd found Michael's mother near the emergency exit, sucking on a cigarette and grumbling about _the nerve of that man_.

"Not someone you wanted to see?" Fiona inquired gently, trying to lean away from the plume of smoke.

"Frank's brother, Levi Westen," Maddie clarified. "He's the only one of the family that even bothered to show up, though he might just as well have not bothered to come at all." She flicked the remains of the burning tobacco into the alley and closed the door. Suddenly, Mrs. Westen had latched onto her, hugging her fiercely for a long moment and biting back a sob, before releasing her just as abruptly.

"I don't blame you for this, honey," her surrogate mom declared flatly. "But don't expect me to forgive Michael for it either because I can't. It's his fault his brother is dead and you know it."

Surprised by the venom in the older woman's voice, Fiona stood there stunned momentarily as the blonde in black turned on her heel and stalked off towards her perennially put upon neighbors, Mrs. Reynolds and her daughter, who was surreptitiously eying Mr. Axe as if debating whether to speak to him. That was when she realized that Michael was no longer with Sam or Jesse for that matter.

Scanning the room, she found him standing with two people, one of whom she recognized as Ricky Watkins. The other was a tall female with coffee colored skin and dark mahogany hair cascading down her back. She appeared to be Michael's age or a little older and was a strikingly beautiful woman with kind brown eyes.

It had been obvious from their body language that they had known one another and then as if to prove her suspicions, the lady in question gave Michael a long hug and more than a peck on the lips before embracing the younger man to his right and kissing him on the cheek. She departed to talk to other guests, some of whom Fiona vaguely recognized from Andre Watkins funeral a year or so ago.

"Hello Ricky," she'd said. "Who was your friend?"

"That's my cousin Lavanda Williams, she's down from Philly. She was my mom's favorite niece. Her family was from Atlanta, but she lived with us while she was going pre-med at UM, trying to keep 'dre and me outta trouble while mom was at work. I think Mike had a crush on her the whole time."

Somehow, based on Michael's suddenly stoic expression, Fiona had been certain there'd been more than puppy love between those two back in the day and she had a reason to smile for a just a moment.

But all too soon it had been time for the funeral to begin and Fiona had taken his right hand into hers.

Michael had been almost catatonic sitting next to his mother, the only reaction he'd had at all was to squeeze tightly at times and gaze at the ceiling instead of staring blindly over the minister's head, who apparently had been something of a mentor to Michael in his youth, which she'd found out just before the ceremony had commenced. It had been one befitting a hero, someone who'd died for a noble cause.

But afterwards, it had been no better. Whatever comfort she might have had before was short lived as Maddie said only three words to him after all the guests had left and all the goodbyes had been said.

"Michael, it's time."

His Irish lover had felt the anguish radiating from every pore as she had watched her broken man rise stiffly and walk slowly forward. Stealing a glance at Sam and Jesse, she took a deep breath and joined mother and son at the side of the casket. It sounded as though Michael had promised Nate he would _get the bastard_ before he'd straightened up, his face a mask of pain.

Then it was over. Madeline turned and strode out quietly, brushing her hand over Sam's shoulder on the way out. Because he had been barred by the CIA from accompanying Michael on the mission, Mr. Axe was the only one besides herself that Mrs. Westen didn't hold accountable for her baby boy's murder.

Even Jesse had taken some of the fallout, though nowhere near as much as her oldest had. Fiona looked into those big brown eyes and nodded. The tall bald man hugged her and then moved to give Michael the handshake and bro hug combination, while Sam leaned in close to his petite friend, wrapping an arm around her shoulder behind her boyfriend's back.

"Everything you need's in the glove box of the Charger," he whispered into her ear and then left them alone with the remains of Nate Westen. She had already packed their bags and put them into the trunk.

Michael licked his lips several times, biting them in between before he was finally able to speak.

"I should have never… I shouldn't have…I… "

"This is _not_ your fault, Michael," she told him firmly. "This is the fault of a sniper who took two lives instead of one. You know and I know that whoever pulled that trigger should never have taken a shot like that with that high caliber a weapon. We would have never endangered a civilian like that."

The raven haired head dropped and he closed his eyes tightly.

"Whoever took that shot, this is on them," the Irishwoman insisted. "They are going to pay for it. But right now, we are going away. Because I will not let you make the same mistakes I did when Claire died."

That got his attention; raising up quickly, he stared into her intense blue green eyes.

Fiona almost never spoke about what she'd done in the wake of her sister's death, more willing to hint at details of the bombing campaign she and Sean had never been convicted of undertaking months afterwards than what she had done immediately following the funeral. Maybe her brothers had given McBride a few of the details as a warning to never cross their sister if nothing else, but the Glenannes played their cards close to the vest regarding family business. _Well, Nate Westen was family too..._

"He who seeks revenge should be prepared to dig two graves," she said solemnly. "Father Conlon told me that at her wake and that I needed to forgive those soldiers. I told him I preferred the words of Heinrich Heine: Wir sollten unseren Feinden zu vergeben, aber nicht bevor sie gehängt werden."

Michael cocked his head. His German was pretty rusty, though he seemed to catch the gist of the quote.

"I wanted them dead before dawn but me brother kept trying to hold me back, or so I thought. I chose to dance with the devil himself to get it done. I'm sure you remember Thomas O'Neil?"

He nodded wordlessly. Another time they had almost lost each other forever that was still burned in both their brains and it could have been prevented had both of them been a little less stubborn.

"Had I listened to Liam back then, I could've saved meself a boatload o' trouble down the road."

Michael winced at the mention of boats, the memory of her nearly drowning coming to the surface.

"So, today we say our goodbyes to Nate because today is for him. But tomorrow, tomorrow _we _will regroup and then when_ we're _ready, _we_ will take care of this _together_."

Taking her beloved by the arm, she turned him away from shell of the man she'd once thought of as a brother and walked Michael up the aisle towards the exit of the now empty church, where the pall bearers were waiting to take the coffin to the idling hearse and then onward to his final resting place .

_One more thing to do before they were on their way..._


End file.
